The Ministry
by damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: Being Minister for Magic is not easy, and things get even harder when Draco lets Blaise convince him that there's no one better for the job of Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic than Hermione Granger, the woman who tore his heart out three years ago.
1. Level One

**AN: Originally written for Round 7 (2016) of the Dramione Couple Remix.**

 **The original remix couple is MacKenzie McHale and Will McAvoy, from The Newsroom.**

 **In the series, Will McAvoy is the lead anchor on ACN's News Night, and has developed a reputation as someone who became famous by not bothering anyone. While popular with the audience, Will is a difficult person to work with and to work for, which leads to the resignation of his Executive Producer and most of his staff. Mackenzie McHale, Will's ex-girlfriend who cheated on him, is hired as his new EP behind his back, and together they try to turn News Night into a serious news programme, meant to educate and inform the audience.**

 **Some of the dialogue on Chapter 1 paraphrases or is a direct quote from The Newsroom.**

* * *

"What do you mean, they quit?" A number of people on the tables around them turned their heads at the sound of the man's raised voice.

Immune to Draco's temper tantrums through many years of putting up with them, Blaise did not so much as raise an eyebrow at his friend's outburst, but replied in a lower tone, "Theo resigned two weeks ago, and the senior staff resigned with him."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose for a second, trying to keep his temper. "Explain to me how my entire staff quits and you fail to tell me for two full weeks."

"You were on holidays. Only one person knew how to reach you."

"That was you!"

The outburst stopped the approaching waitress in her tracks. Blaise waived the girl over, frowning at Draco.

"Kindly keep your voice down. It may be a Muggle pub, but the Prophet has eyes and ears everywhere, and if it's all the same to you I'd rather not read about this meeting in the paper tomorrow." He took the offered drink and raised it in Draco's direction. "Think about it as an opportunity in disguise. You'll like the new Senior Undersecretary."

"Blaise Zabini," Draco said in a tone that would have shook a more impressionable man, "you better not be about to tell me you hired new senior staff without my say so."

Blaise was all unconcerned nonchalance. "Well, I _am_ the Chief of Staff."

"You do not have the authority."

"Funny you should think so; that's exactly what Pansy said right before she kindly agreed to have the Wizengamot confirm my choices."

"The Wizengamot can't do that."

"As a matter of fact, it can. The relevant statute clearly states that whenever the Minister for Magic is unreachable—"

"You knew how to reach me!"

"Details. Whenever the Minister for Magic is unreachable, it's up to the Wizengamot to ensure the regular working of the Ministry. And there's no point in arguing over a done thing. The new Senior Undersecretary has been chosen and the contract will be signed today."

Repressing a sigh, Draco downed his glass of Firewhisky in one go.

"Who's he?"

"She."

"Who's she?"

Whatever Draco saw on Blaise's face was enough to give away the answer.

"You have got to be bloody kidding me. There is no way in hell— I swear to Merlin, I will have your head for this. I am not working with that— With that woman."

Blaise waved his empty glass at the waitress, who seemed less than thrilled at the prospect of having to approach the table again.

"I'm so glad I broke the news to you in a public place so you wouldn't make a scene."

"Fuck off. You don't get to do this. You don't get to interfere in my life like that."

"Sit down, Draco," Blaise drawled. "Don't be a child. She is qualified, she's good at what she does, and she's willing to work with you, which is more than can be said of most people."

"I am a fucking delight, Zabini, and I have the poll numbers to prove it."

"To strangers, yes. To voters, and lobbyists, and people who greet you in the street. To the rest of us you're a bloody trial on a good day, mate, and don't you forget it. When was the last time you even saw her?"

"I don't know." Draco sat back down and picked up his empty glass. "Three years."

"Coincidentally, that was the last time you were anything resembling pleasant."

"I'm going to take this up with Pansy. You can't do this. The Wizengamot can't do this."

"I believe you'll find we can."

* * *

Hermione's steps echoed on the stone floor of the Ministry of Magic. The impressive hall was at once bigger and more claustrophobic than she remembered. Witches and wizards rushed from one place to another, carrying folders and scrolls of parchment, followed by harried owls and diving files.

No one spared her more than a glance, no one stopped to chat. Once upon a time Hermione had been a familiar face in the Ministry — and a famous one all over Wizarding Britain — but that had been a long time ago.

Glad of her relative anonymity, Hermione headed for the lifts and managed to squeeze in between a wiry wizard in purple robes and a grumpy-looking goblin.

"Watch it, lady," the goblin said, though Hermione had barely touched him.

"Beg you pardon. Level one."

The lift sprang to life. Hermione's stop was the first one, and she was the only one to get off on that floor. She stopped there for a moment, in the deserted hall, trying to muster the courage she didn't feel. She hadn't stepped foot in that place in three years. She hadn't seen _him_ in three years. There were good reasons for that, and maybe she should have remembered them before accepting Zabini's mad proposal.

Sure, she needed a job, but she could just as easily have taken one as a barista at Costa. Some might say her talents would have been wasted serving coffee in a Muggle café, but Hermione was no snob. She could have been happy in such a job. Happier than she was just then, her stomach tied into knots as she willed herself to move.

"Merlin help me," she muttered before marching towards the end of the corridor, which lead to the open floor where most of the support staff worked.

Normally the large space would have been full of people — people working, people arguing, people discussing everything from politics to who had won the last Quidditch match — but just then the room was quiet and all the desks deserted. All save one.

Hermione made for the desk in the corner, where Colin Creevey was immersed in a heavy tome that was in every way perfectly ordinary — old-looking and leather-bound — except for the fact that it was purring contentedly and rather loudly.

"A Brief History of Cats?" Hermione asked teasingly, startling Colin out of his reverie.

"Hermione!" Colin jumped from his seat with a grin. "So it is true. Parvati said you were back in Britain."

Hermione smiled. "The desert got old. Too much sand everywhere. Where is everyone?"

"Oh, they're around somewhere. Theo and most of the Senior Staff are moving to other departments, so they're celebrating with a pizza party. I don't think Muggles deliver pizzas down here, but Daphne knows an MP Squib who will trade most anything for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes merchandise. It's very handy."

"Why didn't you go?" Hermione leaned back against a desk.

"To the party?"

"With Nott, to the Department of Mysteries." Blaise had given her access to all the personnel files. She knew who was going and where they were going. Nott had surprised her the most. She had no doubt Draco could be occasionally difficult to work with, but Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic was an important job. It was _the_ job. There was nowhere for Theo to go but down.

Colin shrugged. "Malfoy promoted me to his assistant. If his own assistant can't be loyal to him, who can?"

Hermione smiled fondly at the young wizard. If anyone knew about loyalty, it was Colin. "Well, you're no longer his assistant," she said. "You're now the Deputy Director of Communications."

"Merlin! Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm crazy about loyalty. You'll report to—" Just then Ginny came marching in. "To her."

"Hermione, did you know Malfoy is meeting with Parkinson as we speak?"

"Oh, that's right." Colin sat back down on his chair and closed the purring book. "He went straight there after coming back from lunch. Wasn't terribly happy with Zabini. Said something about going to set things to rights."

Hermione and Ginny exchanged worried looks.

"What are the odds we'll still have jobs by the end of the day?" Ginny asked. "Because I'd really like to be able to afford rent."

"It'll be fine. There's nothing to worry about." She paused a moment. "There's probably nothing to worry about."

* * *

Draco stormed out of Pansy's office, startling her diminutive assistant, who barely had time to jump back from the spot where he had been trying very hard to hear the angry exchange taking place behind the close door.

The Minister did not pause to see the goblin land on his ass, nor did he take note of the curious looks his furious march across the main floor attracted. He didn't notice, and he wouldn't have cared if he had. Not just then. There was only one thing inside his mind, and that was how badly he wanted to use an Unforgivable on Blaise and Pansy — insufferable, meddlesome prats that they were.

He came to a screeching halt as he was about to reach his office, when he spotted Hermione by Colin Creevey's desk. For a few seconds no one moved and no one spoke. Colin was the first one to break the silence.

"Minister, a package—"

"Creevey," he cut in, "get fucking Nott and my sorry excuse for a staff here this instant. Last I checked they still had to serve their notice. You," he said, pointing at Hermione, "with me."

He did not wait for her to follow but marched into his office. Hermione walked in a few seconds later, closing the door behind her.

"It's good to see you, Draco," she said without sitting down. "You look good."

Draco glared at the witch without replying, too mad for words. The memory of their last meeting was burned into his brain.

"I don't know if you got any of my letters," Hermione continued, "or read any of them, but—"

"I burned them."

"Oh. Well, if you had read them—"

"Honestly, Granger, I don't give a fuck. It's been three years. I've moved on."

She flinched at the rebuke, but carried on with forced cheerfulness.

"Well, good. Then let's talk about the organisation of the department. My contract is for three years, which must be the longest time I've ever been anywhere, and—"

"No it's not." He took petty satisfaction in sharing that particular piece of info. It had been the one thing he had managed to get out of Pansy. "Your contract is a weekly contract, automatically renewed at the end of each week. I can't fire you straight away, of course, the Prophet would have a field day, but we'll wait a couple of months and do it then."

"How on earth did you get them to change my contract?"

Draco smirked. "The open seat in the Wizengamot. I will confirm whoever Pansy chooses."

For a moment Hermione was unable to speak. The Wizengamot yielded considerable power, and appointing new judges was a prerogative of the Minister for Magic. Wizards and witches served for life, and seats seldom opened up.

"You want me gone that badly?" she finally asked. "You hate me so much that you would trade the only chance you're likely to get to appoint a judge to the Wizengamot for the ability to fire me whenever you want?"

"Hate would imply that I care," Draco drawled. "I don't. And not whenever I want. Just at the end of each week."

"Draco, people followed me here. Assistants and advisers and specialists. You can't just—"

"Yeah, they fucked up, Hermione," he yelled. "They trusted you."

The witch paled, but her expression hardened. "They are smart people, good at what they do. You will want to keep them."

"They will get a fair chance." His entire staff had quit, after all. He needed people. "I promise no more."

Hermione sat down, her eyes dark and serious as she looked at him. "You and I," she said, "have a chance to do some real good here. Remember what we used to talk about? A magical government that's balanced and fair, that stays away from populism and demagogy, that doesn't pander to the lowest common denominator."

"Do you think I need you to tell me how to run my government?"

"I think you need _someone_ to tell you how to run your government. You're so worried about poll numbers and approval ratings that you do nothing more controversial than cutting ribbons and kissing babies."

"Fuck you. I've done plenty since I was elected."

"Yes, that new piece of legislation on the proper thickness of cauldrons was long overdue. And don't even get me started on the extra bank holiday in February. Truly inspired."

"I'm an elected public official; it's my job to enact the will of the people. I can't just do whatever—"

"You treat is as a popularity contest."

"Do you understand how elections work?"

"You're not up for re-election for another four years."

"Yes, and when the time comes, I'd rather keep my job, if it's all the same to you."

"And I'd rather keep mine, yet here we are." She sighed, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "If you lead with principles and integrity, people will follow. You used to believe that."

"I used to believe a lot of things."

There was no real heat behind his words, but it was enough for Hermione to turn a faint shade of pink and look away. Draco took no satisfaction from it. He had loved her once, more than he thought he had it in him to love anything. There was nothing left of that feeling now, and preciously little left of the man who had felt it.

Just then, Theo Nott barged in.

"They've caught Sam Daniels." He stopped short, staring at Hermione. "Granger. It's been a while."

Hermione stood up and shook the offered hand. "Too long. Where have they taken Daniels?"

Theo glanced over at Draco, who nodded at him to go on.

"They're bringing him to the Ministry as we speak. They're likely to keep him here overnight, if they can't gather a Wizengamot quorum today — and they won't. From here, Azkaban."

The witch turned to Draco, aghast. "They can't send him to Azkaban. He's fourteen years old."

"He's a terrorist," Nott said.

"He's not a terrorist," Hermione replied, indignantly. "He's a scared kid that was failed by his parents, failed by Muggle and wizarding society and failed by _this_ Ministry."

"I'll be sure to pass on that charming character reference to the parents of the kids he almost mauled. Have you read what they're saying about him in the Prophet?"

"Well, if they're calling him a terrorist in the Prophet, I see now how mistaken I've been in my assessment of the situation."

Samuel Daniels was a Muggle-born wizard who had somehow escaped detection by the Ministry as a child. Having spent most of his young life in and out of institutions and foster homes, he had been discovered by Liv Waterston, an enterprising witch who fancied herself a criminal mastermind and who led a small yet industrious band of misfits. They had adopted Sam as a sort of mascot, and no one would have been any the wiser, had Sam not managed to get himself bitten by a werewolf.

Her puppy turned into a hellhound, Liv had left him to fend for himself without so much as a spare Knut. The boy had managed for a while, begging and stealing in both Muggle and wizard areas, but his luck had come to a screeching halt with the full moon. The Ministry, which had been so lax before where the boy was concerned, had been at the scene in a matter of minutes, but Sam had managed to get away. They had been looking for him for almost a month, and the full moon was right around the corner.

"What do you suggest?" Draco asked, tired of hearing them bicker.

"Send him to Hogwarts. Let him learn how to be a wizard and how to live with his situation."

"Are you completely mental?" Nott threw up his arms. "Even if the Wizengamot agreed to it, even if McGonagall and the Hogwarts Board of Directors agreed to take him — all things far from certain — do you understand the uproar it would cause?"

"So to avoid that headache, you'd rather let them lock up a teenager in Azkaban? Have you ever been around a Dementor, Nott?"

"I'm sorry, why are you even part of this discussion?"

Zabini chose that very moment to walk in unannounced, closing the door behind him.

"Do speak louder," he said. "I don't believe the staffers at the back can quite hear you. Meeting your successor, Nott?"

"What?!" Theo looked from Draco to Blaise, shock written all over his face. "Are you freaking kidding me? You replaced me with her? The woman who thinks we should go around freeing all house-elves from the shackles of oppression?"

"I'll advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Nott," Draco said, getting up. "Blaise, how many judges can we get to side with us on the Daniels vote if we press for conditional acquittal?"

"Malfoy, you cannot—"

"Pipe down, Nott. Blaise?"

Draco would have been more than a little surprised if Blaise did not have a very fair idea of who they could count on, but the wizard still took a moment to think before replying.

"Maybe half. Maybe less, even if we factor in your vote and the Senior Undersecretary's. It depends on who shows up. And we may need to twist a few arms and call in a few favours."

"Let's do that."

Hermione's smile was bright enough to light up the room. Nott's head almost blew up.

"If you press for acquittal and he hurts someone, that's it. That's all you'll ever be remembered for. And even if he doesn't, the press will crucify you for this. He's a criminal and a werewolf. Parents will be taking their kids out of Hogwarts before the week is out."

"Nott, didn't I fire you?"

"You didn't fire me. I quit."

"Same difference. Why are you still here?"

"You had Creevey go get me."

"A rare lapse in judgement. Go home. In fact—" Draco walked past them and out to the open floor. "Everyone," he called, "can I get a show of hands? Who is transferring to other departments?"

Almost two thirds of the witches and wizards in the room raised their hand. Draco didn't recognise most of the faces, knew the names of even fewer, but still felt a pang at the amount of people who had suddenly decided they would prefer to work anywhere else rather than put up with him for one more moment.

"Right," he said. "Well, thank you for your good work. As a token of my appreciation, you all get a week off. Starting now." He turned to Hermione. "Can you get your people here within the hour?"

"Of course," she said with a smile that was maddeningly smug and painfully familiar.

"Then get on with it."

"Glad to see my speech had such an effect."

"Your speech did nothing for me."

"It's clear you ate it up."

"Get to work, Granger."

"Right away, boss."


	2. Second chances

The vote to acquit had passed by three votes, and even that much had required a great deal of sweet-talking, favour-calling and what Blaise was fond of calling targeted persuasion — and which others might more accurately describe as bald-faced bribery.

Pansy was not amused. For all that the Minister was technically a member of the Wizengamot and that past Ministers had often exerted considerable influence, Draco had been happy to let the court be. The balance of power between the office of the Minister and the Wizengamot had swung considerably in favour the latter, and that suited the witch, who at thirty-two was the youngest Chief Warlock in over a century, and one of the most powerful.

Having Blaise suddenly playing master puppeteer to her judges was not just unacceptable, it was impolite and ill-mannered, and what's more, it was uncivilised, and she would have none of it. Having shepherded as many of her flock as she could back to the herd, she lost no time in making her displeasure known.

Blaise, however, was almost as familiar with Pansy's put-downs as he was with Draco's temper tantrums, and refused to be intimidated by the witch's furious tirade on the impropriety of his conduct, his blatant disregard for due process, and the cowardice of a Minister for Magic who could not even be depended upon to be on the premises to receive the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

"To hear you speak, you'd think we were plotting the death of the King," Blaise said, leaning back on his chair and silently cursing Draco for fleeing while he had the chance and leaving him to deal with Parkinson.

"You do not want to go head-to-head with me, Zabini. I will make this administration's life hell."

"Might I remind you that of the two of you, Draco is the one the wizarding population of the United Kingdom and Ireland elected to office?"

"How does bribing judges figure in that grand vision of democracy of yours?"

"If you can prove we're doing any such thing, by all means, lodge a complaint. Otherwise, please go away. Bribing all those judges has really set me behind."

Pansy's smile did not reach her eyes as she leaned forward over his desk.

"Laugh it up, Blaise. You might think bringing Granger here to shake him up was smart, but sooner or later it's going to blow up in your face. You're not as clever a kingmaker as you think you are."

Blaise waved her away, undisturbed. He was an excellent kingmaker. He'd gotten Draco elected even after everything that had happened — Dumbledore and the war, and a Dark Mark that would never fade. He had made him Minister, and with enough nudges in the right direction, he might even make him a good one.

Draco was not oblivious — certainly not as much as he'd like to be — to the machinations of his friends, but many years of dealing with Pansy and Blaise had taught him that the best thing to do was to get out of the way and let them fight it out well away from him.

He had other things on his mind. Pansy was all bark and no bite, but the Prophet was a different matter. The Daily Prophet both informed public opinion and was a reflection of it, and Draco had worked very hard during his time in office to make sure he stayed on the right side of the newspaper.

As Ministers for Magic went he was well-liked — more well-liked than any Death Eater had any right to be — and he was painfully aware of how quickly that could change. That was why he could not understand what had possessed him to champion Samuel Daniels — delinquent, Muggle-born and werewolf — when he knew exactly the sort of shit-storm it would kick up.

He blamed it on Nott. If he hadn't been such a bothersome, aggravating, disloyal prat, Draco would not have felt the need to stick it to him by doing something that needlessly and unbelievably stupid.

Daniels he blamed on Nott, but Hermione was all Blaise's fault, and sooner or later he'd get him for it.

She was everywhere.

She was in and out of his office all day long, with interdepartmental memos, policy drafts, lists upon lists of things to do, to change, to improve. She sat next to him on the Wizengamot, listening to the debates, punctuating the words of others with frowns and nods, and small shakes of the head as her quick-notes quill flew across sheets and sheets of parchment. She was even to be found in the small kitchen tucked away in a corner of Level One, waiting for water to boil in her electric kettle (Why did a witch need an electric kettle? Why was there a socket in there? How did Granger manage the extraordinary feat of being everywhere he turned? These were all good questions to which he had no answer.)

She was everywhere and it was driving him crazy. He had tried so hard for three years to forget she even existed, and now he couldn't take two steps without bumping into her. It was annoying and infuriating and maddening. He wanted his peace back. He wanted the Prophet off his case. He wanted her gone.

And then, one Tuesday morning, she was.

Draco arrived at the Ministry early, as was his custom. Level One was still mostly deserted. Colin Creevey was already at his desk, working on something or other, and there was light under Blaise's door, but most people would not start to arrive for another hour. The Minister settled down at his desk, where someone had already placed a copy of the day's Daily Prophet. Draco glanced at the headline, which read, "TROUBLED YOUTHS: UNCANNY SIMILARITIES BETWEEN THE LIVES OF DRACO MALFOY AND SAM DANIELS."

The only troubling thing was the size of that headline. He tossed the Prophet into the empty fireplace, where it burst into flames.

He got started on the paperwork that had been mounting on his desk for the past week — documents that needed his signature, reports from department heads, cost estimates and assorted mail, including a disturbingly detailed account of what would happen if his government failed to secure rights of travel into centaur territory (death and doom, mostly).

He was so engrossed in his work that it was almost half past ten when he realised he had been there for over three hours without Granger coming to interrupt, disturb or harass him. Some new sort of psychological warfare she had picked up during her time abroad, no doubt.

He walked out of his office and glanced around.

"Weasley," he called out. "Where the bloody hell is Granger?"

Ginny shrugged, throwing her arms up as if to indicate the extreme degree to which she lacked any idea of where the bloody hell Granger was. No one else so much as looked up from what they were doing, interrupted what they were saying, or volunteered any useful information. Draco missed Nott's staff. They had been properly terrified of him. This lot lacked survival instincts.

He marched over to the kitchen, which was empty except for Hannah Abbot, who was munching on a cereal bar while reading a floating piece of parchment. The offencive red kettle sat empty and quiet in a corner.

He tried the library next. Rule of thumb, whenever Hermione Granger was nowhere to be found, it was always sensible to check the closest library. Level One had its own private book collection. One of the many perks of being Minister for Magic.

The moment Draco walked through the door, he was greeted by the sight of Luna Lovegood, kneeling on top of a table, examining a stack of spreadsheets and parchment. Next to her, on a chair, sat what looked like a walrus holding a book.

"Lovegood, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

Luna looked up, her eyes huge behind thick bottle-bottom glasses. "I'm fixing the economy."

"Right. Carry on."

Just then, Nott appeared from behind a shelf, holding up a heavy, leather-bound tome.

"Found it."

"Nott, what in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"I'm helping her fix the economy."

"When I fire people, I expect them to vacate the premises."

"Good thing you didn't fire me, then."

Unwilling to let himself be dragged into a discussion on semantics, Draco let them to it, and walked slowly back to his office. He was almost at his door when he spotted Blaise.

"Where's Granger?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.

"She took a personal day."

"Are we the sort of employers who allow people to take personal days?"

"I believe it's legally mandated."

"If only we knew someone who writes laws."

He went back to his desk and picked up Potter's report on the new Auror Training Programme. What did he care that she wasn't around? All the better for him. If only it were that quiet every day — without her constant chatter, her constant interruptions, her constant just being there.

His gaze fell on the calendar on the desk. October 14th.

He knew where she was.

Without pausing to think, he got up and grabbed his coat, yelling to the room outside that he would back in a few hours.

The day outside was cold but sunny. The streets were full of people going about their daily lives, unaware of the fact that the Minister for Magic walked amongst them. No one spared Draco a second glance. He had remembered just in time to change into Muggle clothes and was now one more face in the crowd, unremarkable in every way.

Finding Hermione wasn't difficult.

The house was a perfectly ordinary, two-storey brick building, nestled between two similarly-built houses that multiplied in turn all the way to each end of the street. All the houses had a little garden out front, and the one belonging to this house was particularly colourful, full of flowers in bloom, at odds with the lateness of the season. In this house lived a Mr and Mrs Wilkins, who had once been known as Mr and Mrs Granger.

The quiet row of houses faced a park, which was where Draco found Hermione. The witch was sitting on a bench on the other side of the road, across from her parents' house. She was clutching a small package, wrapped in golden paper, topped with a red bow.

Draco sat down next to her, and for a few minutes neither of them said anything. In the house across the street, someone walked by a window, but it was too far for them to see any details.

"Isn't it funny," Hermione said, her voice a little off, "that even when you erase someone's memory, some parts of them remain the same? Mum always used to take the day off for her birthday. Before I went to Hogwarts, we used to bake cookies, and go shopping, and watch movies all afternoon. It was like a holiday. She doesn't remember any of it, of course, but she still takes the day off every year."

"You did what you had to do." They all had done what they had to do. War was an ugly business, whichever side of it you happened to be on.

"I didn't think it would be forever. When I did it, I didn't think it would be. I thought I was smart enough to find a way to undo it. No one's ever managed, but I thought I could." She smiled, ruefully. "Was that optimism or arrogance?"

"Arrogance, definitely. Damn Gryffindors."

She playfully slapped his arm and smiled — a genuine, light-up-her-entire-face smile. It felt like a victory.

"That's rich, coming from a Slytherin." After a few seconds, she asked, "Why did you come?"

Because he was a fool, where she was concerned. Enough of a fool to let her stay. Enough of a fool to come running when he thought she might need him.

"Urgent Ministry business."

"What sort of urgent Ministry business?"

"Loony Lovegood is fixing the economy."

Hermione chuckled. "She's really quite brilliant, you know?"

"There was a walrus helping her."

"Have a little faith."

"You lot will be the death of me."

Hermione laughed but did not reply, and they sat there in companionable silence, he and the woman who had once tore his heart out.

"Draco, about what happened with Ron—"

"Don't." He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to think about it. There was an image of her and Weasley together in bed carved into his brain, and he didn't need her help poking that particular wound; he did it just fine by himself.

Hermione sighed. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but I need to say it. I did a horrible thing. I know that. I hurt you, and I know that too. There's nothing I can say that will change what happened, but for what it's worth, not a day goes by that I don't regret it." For all the good that did him. "Can't we just try to put it behind us and start over?"

Draco understood regret. He understood having things you wished you could take back. He had done plenty of things that he wasn't proud of, and a life dedicated to public service barely began to even the score. A better man would forgive her, a smarter man would let it go, but he was neither that smart nor that good.

What he was, however, was a bloody fool. Had always been, where she was concerned. And he had never been able to stand that troubled look on her face.

He turned a little so he was facing her and held out his hand.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Draco Malfoy. It's nice to meet you."

Hermione's eyes filled with tears but she smiled and shook his hand.

"Hi, Draco Malfoy," she said. "I'm Hermione Granger."

"So what do you do, Hermione Granger?"

"I'm a civil servant of sorts. And you?"

"I'm a civil servant of sorts too."

He touched the tip of his wand to the gift-wrapped package she was still holding and it disappeared, appearing on the house across the street, on a table by the window. A man on a bike was so stunned by that little trick that he almost crashed into a parked car.

"There are laws against using magic in front of Muggles, you know?" Hermione asked.

"That's okay. I know a guy at the Ministry."


	3. The Wizengamot

Hermione shifted in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. The Wizengamot had been called into emergency session at 11 p.m. and it was shaping up to be a long night. Wizards and witches — many of them elderly, most of them deeply unimpressed by the late summons — poured in, the silver W prominent against their plum-coloured robes. The full court seldom assembled for ordinary sessions, but on this occasion every seat was filled.

Draco and Harry arrived together, both of them late, both of them with scowls on their faces. Draco took his seat between Hermione and Pansy, and Harry, as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, sat on Pansy's other side.

"Do you know what this is about?" Hermione whispered. Pansy's summons had been remarkably lacking in details.

"A bloody headache."

A commotion on the corridor outside heralded the arrival of two dishevelled middle-aged men in chains, dragged in by a group of Aurors. The men looked worse for wear, their faces bruised and their Muggle clothes filthy. They shrieked and whimpered as the Aurors shoved them into cages in the centre of the auditorium.

Pansy banged her gavel.

"The court is now in session. Auror Sadoski, present."

"Yes, ma'am." Auror Alison Sadoski, a petite, dark-haired witch, shifted in place under the scowling gaze of the assembled court. "Auror Moody and myself have earlier in the evening apprehended these men. They stand accused of the torture and murder of wizard Neal Patel, by means of fire."

"They burned him at the stake."

Moody's announcement caused an uproar on the stands, and the torrent of indignant cries and shouted insults threatened to derail the proceedings.

Pansy gavelled the session to order.

"Enough," she said when most of the commotion had died out. "Auror Moody, you will spare us the running commentary and refrain from talking out of turn."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, looking not the least contrite. Reese Moody did not resemble his famous uncle. Unlike Alastor, Reese was tall and lanky, with dark hair that he wore long, tied back in a ponytail. He did have Mad-Eye's bearing, however, the look of someone who was not to be intimidated by bureaucrats and people in fancy robes, however shiny the silver W embroidered on them.

"Chief Warlock, if I may." Hermione caught Pansy's eye and the other witch nodded. "Auror Sadoski," she continued, "were you aware, when you captured these men, that they were Muggles?" Burning someone at the stake was the classic punishment for witchcraft in the Muggle world. A few centuries out of fashion, but still.

"Yes, ma'am."

Next to her, Draco sighed, as if anticipating her next question.

"Were you also aware that neither the Auror Office nor this court have jurisdiction over Muggles?"

That caused a renewed upheaval among the judges, with shouts of, _"Bloody disgrace"_ and, _"Hang jurisdiction"_ clearly discernible among the ruckus.

Pansy banged her gavel a number of times before she was able to subdue her mutinous brethren.

"Enough! The next person who speaks out of turn will be held in contempt of court. Do not try me." She stared at the judges around the room, as if daring them to defy her. "The Madam Secretary does have a point, and we will discuss it. Calmly."

But there was no calm to be had. The discussion that ensued over the next hours was many things — heated and acrimonious and hectic — but not calm. There were calls for the law to be changed, calls for the men to be sent to Azkaban without so much as a trial, even calls to hang them, on the premise that Azkaban was too good for the likes of them.

Moody demanded that the Auror Office be given leave to use Unforgivables on the men, in order to ascertain exactly what they knew about the wizarding world and who else was in their confidence, which caused Auror Sadoski, who already looked remarkably uncomfortable, to pale noticeably, and Harry to order Reese to remember his place and be quiet.

The idea gained traction among some of the judges, however, and before long some of them were already debating the merits of extending the powers of the Auror Office, while others decried the notion as a plot to turn wizarding Britain into a police state.

Draco listened to the debate in silence, leaning back on his chair with an impassive face that gave nothing away.

"Planning to jump in here at some point?" Hermione asked under the general uproar.

He did not reply, did not so much as acknowledge he had heard her. She was about to call out to him again, when a proposal from Judge Dev Munn that all Squibs in Britain be interrogated to discover who was divulging wizarding secrets drew her attention back to the debate.

"Well, if that's not the most preposterous thing I've ever heard."

Neither the tone nor the content of the debate improved with the passing hours. Close to 5 a.m., Draco suddenly got up, interrupting a long tirade by Judge Don Sabbith on how the bilateral accords between the Ministry and the Muggle government were clearly biased in favour of the latter.

"That's enough," Draco said, and silence fell on the room. He had been quiet so long that even Hermione had at times forgot he was there. "We've been here long enough. The law is the law, and the Wizengamot is bound by it, as much as any citizen on the street. The only way for the law to change — this or any other — is for the Minister for Magic to propose a change, and I won't. The Wizard-Muggle Criminal Law Act doesn't just ensure Muggles are tried in Muggle courts; it also ensures that our people are tried in our own courts."

"Minister, you can't just—" Moody started, but a look from Harry silenced him.

"I want these men handed over to the Muggle authorities tonight." Reese looked positively mutinous, but the other Aurors present nodded. "And I want the Auror Office to investigate the circumstances surrounding Patel's death and to share any relevant information with the Muggles. I will meet with the Prime Minister tomorrow. That is all. We're done here. Session adjourned."

Without waiting for a reaction, Draco walked down from the dais and walked out. For a moment everyone was too stunned to react in any way, and then the room erupted in shouts and complaints, all the judges indignant, incensed and livid, even those who agreed with Draco. The Wizengamot had traditionally been a powerful court and had grown more so under Pansy's time as Chief Warlock. It was not used to having its opinions dismissed in such a cavalier fashion.

Pansy did not try to call them to order. The witch motioned for the Aurors to remove the captives and then headed for the door, followed by Harry and Hermione.

They caught up with Draco just outside his office, where he had stopped to talk with Blaise. The open plan section of the floor was eerily quiet, the desks void of people and the air empty of owls and flying dispatches.

Blaise stopped whatever he was saying and nodded at the approaching group. Pansy ignored the Chief of Staff and went straight for Draco.

"How dare you?" She was livid. "Need I remind you that you are Minister for Magic, not king? You do not dismiss the Wizengamot like that."

"And do I need to remind you that the Wizengamot is, by and large, an advisory body? You advised. I took your input under advisement. And then I made a decision."

"You do not govern alone, Draco, much as you lately seem to believe you do. There are judges in the Wizengamot who have served for over half a century. We keep you in office."

"If you plan to start a coup, kindly leave it until the morning. It's late and I, for one, would like to get some sleep." He turned to leave, but Pansy's words stopped him.

"They burned him at the stake," she all but screamed, her words full of rage.

Draco sighed, but turned to face her, and Blaise placed a hand on her shoulder that she immediately shook, too angry for comforting gestures. For several moments the three pure-bloods stood there in silence, farther away from Harry and Hermione than the space between them.

They came from old families, the three of them. Families with long memories. Families that remembered a time of persecutions and witch hunts and burnings. Ancient fear had turned to prejudice and spawned a different kind of horror, but it had started with a community turning inward to protect itself and to protect its own. Pansy heard those old echoes in a way that Harry and Hermione — brought up in Muggle households, cared for by Muggle hands — could not.

"I won't do it, Panse," Draco finally said. "We have these laws in place for a reason. They're good laws, solid laws, laws that have kept us at peace with the Muggles for centuries. And I won't risk that for one wizard."

Just then Pansy looked much like the girl Hermione remembered from Hogwarts — full of vicious fury barely held together by pride and poise. She was no longer a girl, however, and whatever retort she might once upon a time have uttered, she kept it now to herself.

"As you will," she said only, haughty arrogance worn like an armour. They watched in silence as she stalked out, plum-coloured robes trailing behind her.

"That won't be the end of that," Blaise said.

"I'll be sure to care about it tomorrow." Draco opened the door to his office. "Goodnight."

"It _is_ tomorrow," Blaise said to the closed door. "Granger, if you're free before lunch, I need to know in exactly how much trouble we are with the Wizengamot."

Lots and lots of trouble. "I'll come find you."

"Great. Goodnight." Blaise's footsteps receded in the distance until everything was quiet and still once again.

Hermione leaned back against a desk, wondering if going home was even worth it. She would normally be waking up in a couple of hours.

"What a night," she complained, bone-weary. "What will you do about Reese?"

Harry sighed. "Depending on the amount of paperwork on my desk in the morning, murder him, like as not."

Hermione was too tired to laugh, too exhausted to find anything funny.

"I'm serious."

"Me too. My whole week is gonna go to hell over this circus. Damn kid." Harry ran a hand over his messy hair, in a gesture so familiar that Hermione couldn't help but smile. "He could be my best Auror if he weren't so bloody-minded. Sharpest wand in the department, but stubborn as a mule, arrogant, convinced he's always right, always on some bloody crusade—"

"Remind you of anyone?"

"Mad-Eye had common sense."

That did get a laugh out of Hermione. "I didn't mean Mad-Eye," she said, kissing Harry on the cheek. "Goodnight, Harry."

"Oi," he cried after her. "I resent the implication."

Ignoring her body's demands that she find a horizontal surface — _any_ horizontal surface — and lie down on it for a week, she made her way to Draco's office and walked in without knocking.

"Go away," Draco said without stirring from the sofa in the corner, without so much as opening his eyes. The only light in the room came from the fire burning in the fireplace.

Hermione sat on the armrest and looked down at Draco.

"Don't antagonise the Wizengamot," she said.

Draco sighed. "Blaise will smooth it over."

"Blaise wouldn't have to smooth it over if you were a little bit more diplomatic."

He opened his eyes, looking straight up at her. "What would you have had me do? Let them undermine three centuries of peaceful co-existence between Muggles and wizards for the pleasure of throwing two Muggles into Azkaban?"

"It's not what you did I object to, it's the manner in which you did it."

"Feel free to nag me about it tomorrow."

"It _is_ tomorrow," she said, echoing Blaise. He deserved nagging, but she was too tired to put much heart in it. "It was a brave thing to do," she said instead, because it had been. Foolish and rash and brave. It would not be a popular decision.

"It wasn't bravery." Draco's eyes shone with the reflected light of the fire. "What do you think the Prophet would make of a Death Eater handing Muggles over to Dementors? It wasn't bravery. It was politics."

Hermione snorted. "They won't thank you for this night's work either."

"Probably not. But it's a decision I can live with."

Too tired for rational thought, she ran an affectionate hand through his hair, in a gesture that was both misguided and achingly familiar. Draco hummed his approval, demonstrating that he too had retired rational thought for the night.

"Go home," she said, getting up. "Don't sleep here."

"I won't. Goodnight, Madam Secretary."

She smiled at his teasing tone. "Goodnight, Minister."

Maybe it would be fine. Wizengamot proceedings were technically confidential, and everything had happened so late at night that maybe, if they were very lucky, everything would be kept under wraps.


	4. Polls and other uncomfortable things

It was an unmitigated disaster.

"Soft on crime" was the kindest epithet the Daily Prophet threw at him. The newspaper, which until recently had done nothing but sing his praises (no easy feat, and one for which Blaise took full credit), now deemed him a coward, a disgrace to his office, and a traitor to his blood, his name and his people. It stopped short of overtly calling him a Muggle lover, but one particularly colourful opinion piece by an Aaron Porter ( _"A concerned citizen"_ ) did describe him as the "obedient lapdog of Muggle Prime Minister Gallagher".

Blaise found it remarkable that citizen Aaron Porter even knew who the Muggle Prime Minister was, but Draco found no humour in it. Ginny suggested he cast a Dark Mark over the Ministry, as a way to remind people that he used to follow a Dark Lord bent on purging wizarding society from all Squibs, Muggle-borns and blood traitors ( _"No one will suspect you of Muggle sympathies then."_ ), but he didn't see the funny in that either.

The Wizengamot was in open rebellion. Draco had never in his life seen a more contrary, uncooperative and obstructionist pack of mummies. They vetoed anything that came across the court, dragged every possible proceeding as long as humanly possible, and were slowly but surely burying the support staff in paperwork. Even Blaise's practised diplomacy had so far failed to produce any tangible results.

The whole thing made Draco long for the good old days of a month ago, when all he got flak for was getting a petty criminal teenage werewolf acquitted and sent to Hogwarts.

Things had gotten so bad that he had taken to avoiding Diagon Alley. Back when he had had the good sense to stay on the good side of public opinion, he had always enjoyed taking a stroll through the shopping quarter at the end of the work day — stop at _Flourish and Blotts_ to check out any new books, drop by the Leaky Cauldron for a pint, dutifully avoid Knockturn Alley ( _Borgin and Burkes_ delivered), and generally bask in the carefully cultivated adoration of the general public.

There was no adoration now. There was barely a hint of approval.

There were no doubt people who agreed with his stance, who saw no profit in picking a quarrel with the Muggle executive and who thought one prison was much like another, so who cared that the two Muggles didn't end up in Azkaban as long as they ended up _somewhere_? Those people existed and some of them might even stop him on the street to chat or shake his hand. Mostly, however, he was confronted with the frowns and disapproving looks of armchair politicians who thought they were better, knew better and could do better, people who whispered loudly about Death Eaters and war criminals in the same breath in which they called him a Muggle-whipped coward and saw no conflict in that.

Draco had many fine qualities, but a thick skin had never been one of them. He had grown up as a boy-king — cherished, adored, indulged and spoilt. He had flown high right until he crashed and burned — boy-king turned errand boy, turned Death Eater, turned war criminal. The whole world had gone to hell in a handbasket, and he with it, and he had tried to claw his way back up ever since, to get back that feeling, that high, that surety that he could do no wrong.

He kept falling short.

He finished work late that Tuesday evening. It had been a tiring day, full of meetings and paperwork and headaches, and he wanted nothing more than to get home and forget there was even a world outside the walls of Malfoy Manor. It would take him no more than a few seconds to Floo back, but Draco was feeling restless. He had been cooped up inside for weeks, his life split unevenly between the Manor and the Ministry, and much as he wanted his bed, he wanted a break more — a break from that hellish sameness of house, work, house, work, work, work, work.

He changed into Muggle clothes and walked out of his office. All the desks outside were vacant save one.

"Creevey, go home. I have no intentions of paying you overtime."

"Almost done." Colin waved without looking up.

The night was chilly and it was starting to rain, but Draco didn't mind. He walked aimlessly, neither knowing nor caring where he was going. He had no destination, nor any need for one, happy simply to feel the cold air on his face. London was loud and bright even that late in the evening, and he relished the anonymity, the simple act of walking on the street among people who didn't know him, nor anything about him.

He hadn't strayed very far from the Ministry when something caught his eye. On the other side of a brightly lit pub window was Hermione. The witch didn't look up, too busy scribbling notes on the margins of documents laid out on the table in front of her, but she would have been unlikely to see him out on the darker street even if she had.

A smarter man would keep walking. They were in a good place, the two of them, a better place than he would ever have thought possible. They had gone from strangers to foes, to friends, to lovers, back to strangers, back to friends, and he wanted them to stay there, in that good place where they could work together, and be together in the same room without him wanting to set it on fire.

And if he looked too hard at her — too hard at the familiar way she bit her bottom lip when concentrating, too hard at the way she turned her head just so, too hard at how she always looked just a little more herself whenever her hair was having a particularly unruly day — he would remember just how much he hated her. How much he hated her for sleeping with Weasley, how much he hated her for leaving, how much he hated her for coming back.

How much he hated himself on top of it.

Ever the fool, Draco walked into the pub. The interior was warm and comfortable, and mostly deserted. Besides Hermione, there were only a few more patrons scattered around the room. He dropped his coat on the back of the chair across from her and sat down. Hermione looked up, surprised.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm a big fan of all things Muggle, or haven't you heard? You transfigurated these?" He picked up a sheet of paper, recognising a memo from the Department of Mysteries.

"Obviously. Couldn't bring scrolls to a place like this."

"Why are you bringing anything at all? You're a worse workaholic than Blaise. You have a problem, Granger."

"I have many problems, Malfoy, but you stealing my rhubarb pie is not going to be one of them. Get your own."

She tried to pull the plate away from him, but he held on to it.

"I don't have any Muggle money on me. Would you deny a starving man pie?"

"Yes," she said, but let go of the plate all the same.

He smirked, impaling another chunk of stolen pie with his newly stolen fork.

The single waiter managed to drag himself away from the giggly red-head monopolising his attention long enough to come by their table and ask Draco if he could get him anything.

"Whiskey, neat."

"I thought you didn't have any Muggle money," Hermione said as the waiter walked away.

"I don't. You're buying."

"Am I?"

"I'll trade you a bite of rhubarb pie."

She rolled her eyes, but ate the offered pie off the fork he was holding. "You have no shame."

"None. Is that the quarterly report from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes?" Draco stole it from her pile. "I've been waiting for that for a week."

"Help yourself," Hermione said, resigned to the inevitable.

"Quill," he asked, reaching in her general direction without looking away from the report.

"Are you at all familiar with the _International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy_?" She handed him a pen instead.

They worked in amicable silence, unencumbered by disagreeable things — such as the whims of an unelected quasi-parliament, the fickleness of public opinion, or the annoying December drizzle that was never quite rain.

Draco liked it. He liked the secluded atmosphere of the almost-empty pub. He liked the waiter and his casual neglect. He liked the drinks that kept on coming in spite of it (whiskey for himself and wine for Hermione. White, because she had always been unconscionably prejudiced against red).

It was a small island of quiet and contentment amid the chaos of the last few months — pleasant and perfect, and never meant to last.

"Do you have the draft of the speech for the broom-maker unions?" he asked.

"It's here somewhere." Hermione hunted it down in the chaos she called 'a system' and he called 'the place order went to die'. "I haven't had time to go through it yet, though."

"I'll do it." Something caught his eye, however, and he grabbed it before Hermione could slip it out of sight. The witch made to grab it back, but he moved it out of her reach.

Blaise had been keeping the latest polls from him, saying only that if there was anything of note, he'd let him know. Draco knew the numbers couldn't be good, but he didn't expect them to be this bad. His approval rating was down in the single digits. The last time a Minister's numbers had been this bad, Voldemort had returned and Fudge had been forced to resign.

He only faintly heard Hermione calling his name, and it took him a few seconds to feel the sharp pain in his hand, which was covered in whiskey and glass shards from the shattered glass he had been holding.

The waiter ran over with a kitchen towel that Hermione immediately commandeered, sending him off to fetch a first-aid kit.

"Draco, let me see your hand." She took it in hers, carefully turning it over and using the cloth to brush off as much of the glass as she could.

He pulled the hand away. "I'm fine." He couldn't remember the last time his magic had misfired like that. "I need to get some air."

Ignoring her calls to wait for her, he grabbed his coat and stalked out.

It was fiendishly cold outside, and the crowds had dwindled to a trickle of passers-by. Draco picked a direction at random, trying to walk off the sudden sense of drowning. He was sixteen years old again, standing in a circle of sneering Death Eaters who wanted nothing better than to see Lucius Malfoy's young pup run himself ragged trying to do the bidding of a homicidal maniac.

He was seventeen, kneeling at Voldemort's feet, the weight of his House on his shoulders. He hadn't killed Dumbledore, but Dumbledore was dead, and surely that was — that _had_ to be — enough?

He was nineteen, weighed down by chains that clanked if he so much as took a breath, waiting to hear what the punishment for losing a war was.

He was twenty-six and his voiced filled his father's study as he and Lucius hurled angry words at one another. It was the last time he would see his father alive.

He was twenty-eight, telling Hermione to get out. He didn't yell, he didn't raise his voice. He told her to get out and she did, leaving him alone with all the reasons why he wasn't good enough, had never been good enough, and the whole thing had been doomed from the start.

Draco took a deep breath, trying to stop thinking and keep walking, keep moving, keep going.

"Draco, wait." Hermione touched his back and he spun around, gripping her arm.

"You and Blaise need to stop trying to fucking manage me."

A knight in shiny armour masquerading as an overly-adorned hoodlum took issue with his tone, shouting as he ran across the street, "Oi, mate! Get your bloody hands off her!"

Draco's hand flew to the pocket where he kept his wand, but Hermione grabbed his sleeve. "Don't be an idiot," she whispered.

"You okay, love?" the young man asked.

"Yes, I'm fine," Hermione smiled, without letting go of his sleeve. "My friend just received some bad news. We're fine. I'm sorry for taking up your time."

The man eyed Draco with suspicion. "Well, if he's not giving you any trouble," he said, looking not the least convinced.

"It's really fine."

"All right, then. Evening."

"Good evening."

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Hermione dragged Draco to an alley, where they were less likely to be interrupted by well-meaning simpletons.

"Zabini did not think you'd take it well," Hermione said. "I'm so glad to see he was wrong."

"Spare me the sarcasm." He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes for a second, the world dwarfing to his pulsating hand and aching head.

"The numbers will bounce back."

Maybe. Maybe not. Right then, they were what they were.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," he said. "I'm going home."

He straightened up, but Hermione kept him in place, a hand against his chest.

"How?" she asked.

"How what?"

"How are you going home?"

He sighed, removing his wand from his pocket. "I have one of these."

"You're not Apparating."

"Hermione—"

"Not a chance in hell, Malfoy." She always called him that when she wanted to sound bossy. He used to find it charming. Once upon a time. "Not in that state. You're upset and you've been drinking, and you'd think you're in enough trouble with the Prophet without giving them the chance to write a story about how the Minister for Magic splinched himself."

"Move."

"Don't be an idiot." He was getting tired of being told that. "I live nearby. You can take the Floo from there."

He didn't want to. He didn't want to spend another minute with her. Not just then. The whole world was spinning too fast, and he didn't need — did not want — an audience. He wanted to be able to lash out and rail against fate and the world, and people in general and her in particular, and Blaise for being a prat, and Pansy for being a disloyal git, and whoever it was that ran the Prophet for doing it with the gleeful abandon of the morally bankrupt. He had met more principled Death Eaters.

"Just let me be, Hermione," he pleaded, with no real hope that she would.

Hermione grabbed his good hand. "Come on."

Draco sighed. "Fine." Contrary to popular belief, he was not entirely impervious to good advice.

The witch lived in a flat on the top floor of an old building that had seen better days. There was no lift, and they had to climb all the way to the fifth floor on narrow stairs that creaked under their weight.

"Do I pay you this badly?"

"Not all of us inherit the ancestral home of our forefathers. You try finding an affordable place in London."

When they finally reached her floor, Draco had learnt more than he cared to know or would have thought possible about her neighbours, whose lives seeped steadily through paper-thin walls and poorly-isolated doors.

Hermione's flat was bigger than he would have guessed, and no doubt bigger than any Muggle architect would have thought likely. There were weighed-down bookcases along the living room walls, and a small fireplace opposite the entrance. The witch lacked any of his prejudices against electricity, and her home made ample use of it. There were electric lights, a television, and even something he recognised as a laptop. (He attended meetings at the Muggle Liaison Office. He knew things.) He would even bet that somewhere in that flat of hers, there was to be found a kettle twin to that fiendish contraption she kept at the office.

"Where do you keep your Floo powder?" he asked.

"Sit." She waved her wand in the sofa's general directions, and a number of sheets of parchment flew up, rolled themselves into scrolls and jumped into a basket in the corner of the room.

"I'm just going to go."

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, sit down."

Reconciling himself to the fact that he lacked any control over his life whatsoever, Draco sighed and made his way to the sofa, leaving his winter coat on a coat-rack by the entrance. Hermione had disappeared into a different division, but she returned presently, carrying a box of vials that she set down on the coffee table.

"Give me your hand," she said, sitting down next to him.

"My hand is fine."

"Your hand is bleeding all over the upholstery."

"I remember your nursing skills. I'll take my chances with the glass."

"Grown men who blow up things don't get to be picky in their choice of nurses."

He glowered, she glared, and in the end he put his injured hand in hers, because such was the state of the world.

"'Atta boy."

She held her wand over his palm and muttered an incantation that made all the glass shoot up, disappearing in a glittery cloud. He hissed as the splinters were ripped out of his flesh and tried to pull his hand away, but Hermione held on to it.

"Almost there," she said. Satisfying herself that there was no more glass left to torture out of him, she soaked a piece of cloth in Essence of Dittany and ran it over his palm, instantly healing the cuts. "Was that so very difficult?"

"You enjoyed that far too much."

Hermione dropped the cloth on the coffee table without letting go of his hand, and Draco did not think to pull it away. He turned it instead, his palm against hers. He could chastise himself about it tomorrow.

"I have to resign," he said.

"You really don't."

"You saw those numbers. I cannot—"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The numbers go up and down all the time. That's why we don't tell you about it. You freak out every time the public hiccoughs."

"Not like that." He would love to be over-reacting this time, but he knew he wasn't. "The numbers don't go down like that."

She squeezed his hand. "The numbers will bounce back."

"Not if the Prophet has anything to say about it."

"Oh, hang the Prophet. The Daily Prophet doesn't dictate policy, and I'll be damned if I let them bring down the Ministry."

Draco smiled ruefully at her outburst. Hermione had always loathed the Daily Prophet, even back in the days when they showered praise on the golden trio. Something to do with them being a bunch of lying, spineless, back-stabbing charlatans, who lacked smarts, morals or any appreciation for the truth, and who gave journalism a bad name.

He didn't disagree with her on the fundamentals, but the fact remained that the Daily Prophet was influential — too influential to disregard — and that an elected public official could not be indifferent to the moods of the people he had been elected to serve.

"It's time to let someone else have a turn at the helm." He had given it an honest try. Maybe he could become a Quidditch commentator. Watching Quidditch for a living, now that was the life.

"Do you believe in what we're doing?"

"It's not a matter of—"

"Do you?"

Draco sighed. "You know I do."

He liked her vision — he shared her vision. He was proud of the things they had accomplished in the last few months, prouder of them than of anything he had done up to then. He was proud of the little things, such as the development of the Veteran Fund and the implementation of the Squib Support Programme, both long overdue; he was proud of the more sweeping reforms, such as the reinforcement of worker rights across the public and private sectors, and the overhauling of the taxation system; he was even proud of how they had handled the things that had given him nothing but headaches, such as the Sam Daniels affair and the Neal Patel issue.

There were so many things he still wanted to do, so many things left for him to accomplish. He just didn't know if he had it in him to try.

Draco leaned his head back against the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. "I don't have the trust of the public anymore."

"Then get it back."


	5. Out of the frying pan

**AN: The site was playing hide and seek with some of the alerts yesterday, so if you missed the previous chapter, go check it out!**

* * *

John Mortimer's suit and tie made him stand out in the crowded hall of the Ministry, and passers-by kept casting curious glances in his direction. A less composed man might have found such curiosity as he was the target of impertinent, but Mr Mortimer, Principal Private Secretary to the Prime Minister, was simply delighted. He always was, when visiting the Magical Ministry. No one would have suspected him of delight by looking at him — John Mortimer was nothing if not sober and dignified at all times — but inside he was like a giddy child on Christmas morning. Everything was just so remarkably whimsical.

There were people in colourful robes and pointy hats, and magical wands that produced the most wondrous effects. There were even owls flying through the sky carrying scrolls of parchment. It was like playing witchcraft bingo. He kept hoping to see a black cat, but had so far been disappointed.

Tired of waiting for his guide — a grumpy young man by the name of Moody — Mr Mortimer decided instead to make his way to Level One. It was almost time for his meeting, and it would not do to be late. No, no, no, that would not do at all. He had met with the Other Minister on several previous occasions, and he had no trouble finding his way now.

The first familiar face he spotted was that of Colin Creevey — a most competent young man, lately promoted.

"Mr Creevey, how do you do?"

"How do you do, sir?" They shook hands. "Are you looking for the Minister?"

"Not on this occasion, my boy. Today my meeting is with Lady Macbeth."

Colin frowned in confusion at the quip, but was spared having to reply by Hermione's arrival.

"Mr Mortimer." They too shook hands. "Do we have a meeting today?"

John Mortimer had the good grace to blush. "No, no, ma'am. My apologies. One does not always watch one's tongue as well as one ought to. I meant to say I have a meeting with Mr Zabini."

Hermione laughed, amused. "Machiavelli is in his office. Let me show you the way."

"Oh, no, that won't be necessary. I know where it is; I'll show myself in. A good day to you both."

"And to you, sir."

Hermione watched him for a second as he made his way to Zabini's office. Good man, John Mortimer, and a much more pleasant person to deal with than Prime Minister Gallagher — the arrogant, pompous, paranoid tw—

"Did you need something, Hermione?" Colin asked, bringing her back down to earth.

"Do you know where Draco is? He's not in his office."

"He's at a meeting with Diagon Alley's business association, and after that he's meeting with the Wizarding Council of Northern Ireland. He should be back by late afternoon."

"Oh, right. So he is. Did Ginny go with him?"

"Yeah, and Zabini will meet them in Belfast."

"All right. Thanks, Colin."

Hermione turned and almost bumped into Luna, who was barely visible behind the stack of heavy books she was carrying.

"How's the economy going, Luna?"

Luna peeked over the top tome. "That depends. What are your views on an imminent economic collapse?"

"That I'd very much like to avoid one."

"Well, we'll certainly try. Come along, Glib."

Luna headed towards the library, followed by a bespectacled penguin.

"Whatever happened to the walrus?" she asked Colin.

"I find it best not to ask."

"Smart man."

Hermione returned to her office, dropping the folder she had been carrying on her desk with a sigh. She'd have to remember to get Draco's signature later. For the past couple of weeks it had become nearly impossible to get hold of him. His schedule was full of meetings, and speeches, and appearances — anything that would get him out there and in front of people. His numbers had been climbing steadily, and while she was not one to argue with results, she did not care for all that not being there.

Not that she cared where he chose to spend his time. It was no business of hers. But there was plenty that required his attention at the Ministry too. There were documents that needed to be signed, and decisions that needed to be made, and apparently they were all headed towards an imminent economic collapse, and surely the Minister for Magic should be doing something about _that_? There was a walrus handling the economy, and a penguin. That was surely the sort of lunacy that required ministerial supervision.

Not that it wasn't good to see him fight back — against the Prophet, against those stupid polls, against a public that was always one step away from a mob. No Malfoy had ever failed to smile and charm their way to the top, and Draco was a fitting heir to his House. Put him in front of a crowd and he'd have them eating out of his palm within the hour. It was that sort of charisma that had got him elected — for all that Zabini liked to take much of the credit — and it served him well now. If only his charm worked half as well on the Wizengamot.

Her gaze fell on the Daily Prophet that someone had left on her desk and she reached for it, immediately regretting it on seeing the front page. Much of it was taken up by a black and white picture of Draco having dinner with a witch whose picture would not have been out of place in a very different sort of publication. The headline read, "MINISTER SEEKS LOVE WITH AWARD-WINNING ALCHEMIST." Hermione recognised the restaurant, though she had never eaten there. It was one of those places where the size of the portion was inversely proportional to the price of the meal. Both Draco and the witch — one Rebecca Harden — were engaged in happy conversation. Rebecca — who may or may not be an award-winning alchemist, but who most certainly knew how to make sure the photographer got her most flattering side — laughed prettily at something Draco said and placed a hand on his arm.

The newspaper caught fire on her desk before Hermione had the good sense to float it over to the fireplace with an irritated flick of her wand. _That_ he made time for.

Draco's renewed efforts to win over the public were accompanied by a new-found zest for life that saw him date a different cover of Witch Weekly every other night. All the women he dated were basically the same woman with a different hairdo — they were all of them Pure-bloods of good families who, besides an impeccable pedigree, boasted good looks, numerous accomplishments, legs that went on forever, and who looked stunning in dresses that left very little to the imagination and which never clashed with the decor of whatever expensive place he took them to. Lucius would have approved of every last one.

The Prophet ate it up like a starving kid in a candy store. It was a timely reminder to the newspaper that gossip sold just as well as, and often better than, political scandal. Zabini called it genius; Ginny called it inspired; Hermione called it shameless, unprincipled and a mockery of everything they stood for.

Draco didn't call it much of anything. He was too busy making dinner conversation.

Hannah knocked on the open door to get her attention.

"The department heads are already in the conference room."

"I'll be right there."

Whatever. He could do whatever the bloody hell he wanted. It was no business of hers. Picking up the paperwork she needed for the meeting, Hermione hurried out of her office.

It was a busy day, leaving her little time to worry about Draco and his booming social life. In between meetings and trying to ascertain the exact state of the economy ( _"How imminent is imminent?"),_ Hermione also tried to determine how much progress Zabini had made with the Wizengamot ( _"None at all. They hate our guts."_ ), and even found time to have a drink with Mr Mortimer ( _"Well, if this isn't the most wonderful beverage. Butterbeer you say? How charming."_ ).

All of it did much to dispel her irritation at Draco Malfoy, tabloid journalism and alchemists, and by the end of the day she was once again at peace with all three and the world in general. Having just extricated from Luna the assurance that the economy would probably survive until March, Hermione was on her way back to her office when she saw Ginny.

"You guys only now back from Belfast?" she asked.

Ginny leaned back on her chair, stretching her arms above her head. "Yes, took longer than we thought. Merlin, I'm tired. Letting leprechauns into the Northern Irish council might not have been the smartest idea we ever had."

"Live and learn. Where's Draco?"

"In his office, changing. He's going out to dinner."

Hermione scoffed. "Silly me, of course he is. Who's the lucky girl this time?"

As if on cue, Pansy Parkinson chose that moment to waltz in, looking stunning in a red lace evening gown that had probably cost more than Hermione made in a year. The witch headed straight to Draco's office and knocked once, walking in without waiting for a reply.

"Well, that's _one way_ to handle the Wizengamot," Ginny said. "Don't make that face, Hermione. It was a joke. You know they're just friends."

"I'm not making a face, and you're sadly mistaken if you think I care." And with that graceful reply, she stormed off towards her office, letting the door bang shut behind her.

Alone in the middle of the room, Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, willing the sinking feeling to disappear. It had been three years. She couldn't care this much after three years. They were history, she and Draco. Ancient history. And yet the thought of him with Pansy Parkinson made her want to set the Ministry on fire, in a way even Rebecca Harden hadn't managed. Because Pansy wasn't just some random woman who'd look good on his arm, part entertainment for the evening and part journalist bait. She wasn't even just the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, for all that she was that too. Pansy was someone he cared for, maybe even someone he loved. They had grown up together, the two of them, thick as thieves even at Hogwarts. They could rail and rage at each other from dawn till dusk, but there was a bond between them that was strong and steady and true. Much like her and Harry.

Much like her and Ron.

Hermione opened her eyes with a sigh, moving to the desk. The parade of women — Pansy and Rebecca, and all the others — part of her thought he did it on purpose, to punish her.

Part of her thought she deserved punishing.

She picked up one of the folders on her desk and set to work. She couldn't worry about Draco and Pansy if she was worrying about Dragon blood quotas.

The mountain of paperwork on her desk slowly shrank to a hill, as the noise outside waned until it ceased. The fairy lights in her office dimmed with the lateness of the hour until everything that was left was the lamp on her desk and the fire burning in the corner.

Hermione glanced at her wristwatch. It was almost midnight. A smarter witch would call it a night and go home, but a smarter witch would not have accepted a job working for her ex-boyfriend.

She took another folder from the pile. Last one.

Just as she started to read the draft of the new Magical Cooperation Agreement with France, someone knocked. Hermione glanced at the door, but did not call out to admit whoever was on the other side. She couldn't deal with anyone else tonight.

They knocked again.

"Go away," she muttered, reading the same sentence for the third time. In return for lifting import tariffs on British potions, the French wanted the return of Charles IV's signet ring, which was said — accurately, as it turned out — to possess extraordinary magical properties. Well, that was not going to happen. She crossed out the paragraph.

Draco, undeterred by either closed doors or good manners, walked in, letting the door close behind him.

"I don't believe you understand how doors work," he said, falling down on the sofa with legs stretched out in front of him.

"I don't believe _you_ do. What are you doing here?"

"Someone once told me off about drinking and Apparating. What are _you_ doing here?"

"I work here."

"You should complain to your boss. This is exploitation."

"I'll be sure to bring it up with him." And then, before she could help herself, she said, "Early night for you. Dinner didn't go well?"

"Dinner went great. We'll no longer have to worry about the Wizengamot."

The tip of her quill broke on the parchment. "And how exactly did you manage that?"

Draco chuckled. "I can be _very_ persuasive."

Yeah, she bet he could. Hermione pushed back her chair and walked over to the fireplace, picking up the jar of Floo powder from the mantelpiece and offering it to Draco.

"There. Go home."

He looked up at her, without taking the jar. "What? No congratulations? No, 'well done, Draco'? No, 'You're the best, Draco'? No, 'Whatever would we do without you, Draco'?"

"Get your adulation from Parkinson, Draco. I've clocked out."

He got up with a wolfish grin. "Why, Granger." He took the jar, putting it back on the mantelpiece behind her. "I could almost think you are jealous."

"Don't flatter yourself." She pushed past him, irritated. It was bad enough that she _was_ jealous. She didn't need his taunting.

His smirk was both smug and aggravating. "I'm just saying."

Hermione leaned back against her desk, crossing her arms. "Just saying what, exactly?"

Draco moved towards her, standing far too close, and reached behind her, turning the picture frame that she kept on her desk.

"Just saying that it's ironic, is all," he said.

Hermione did not turn to see the picture he was looking at. She didn't need to; she knew it well enough. It had been taken on the first day of their third year, at King's Cross. Mr and Mrs Weasley stood next to her parents, smiling and waving at the camera. In front of them stood Harry, Ron and herself, their arms over each other's shoulders. Hermione was laughing at something Ron had said, while Harry frowned in mock disgust. It was a picture of her family — all her family — back when things were good and uncomplicated, before war, memory spells and poor life choices made a mess of everything.

She didn't realise Draco had seen it.

"Will you ever let it go?" More fool her for thinking he ever would.

Draco let the frame drop face up on the desk but did not move back, standing close enough that she could feel his body heat. He cupped her face with his hand, his thumb brushing her skin in what could have passed for a caress, and for a second she actually forgot to breathe.

"I very much doubt it," he whispered, leaning forward, his lips warm and familiar when they met hers. He kissed her softly at first, and then with an intensity that took her breath away. And she kissed him back, because she was a fool. Because she had missed him too much, and felt guilty for too long, and just then she didn't care that it was a bad, stupid, foolish idea, and that when he pulled away everything would simply be a new sort of ruined.

She had hoped for a do-over for so long, for a chance to do everything right, and this wasn't it, but just for a moment she could pretend that it was. She could pretend that she hadn't messed everything up, that he didn't hate her.

That she didn't hate herself.

* * *

Part of him wanted to hurt her like she had him, and part of him just wanted to kiss her. He'd hate himself for both come morning, but just then he didn't care. There was no space inside his mind for anything but her — the curve of her breasts, the touch of her hands, the muffled sounds she made against his mouth. Merlin, he had missed her. He'd been so busy taking turns hating her and pretending everything was fine between them, that he hadn't realised just how much he missed her.

Hermione tugged at his clothes, but he was too busy trying to relieve her of hers to be of much help. He tugged and pulled blindly at the buttons of her shirt with limited success, drawing a laugh from the witch. Her giggle turned into a gasp when he lifted her, pushing her on top of the desk. He pulled back slightly and for a moment they stared at each other, he and the woman he had once thought to marry. Her lips were swollen and slightly parted as she tried to catch her breath, and her hair was a wild mess that seemed to shine where it caught the wavering light of the fire.

This was it. This was the moment to put a stop to whatever that was. Because it was foolish. Because it was wrong. Because it was painful enough without them adding to it. A smarter man would leave.

And then she leaned forward and kissed him, and he was lost.

Common sense did not figure into it, neither did self-preservation. It was like gravity. Once you jumped, the only way was down.


	6. Into the fire

Draco Malfoy had done many a stupid thing in his life — there was the time seven-year old Pansy dared him to jump off a first-story window with a toy broom, the time he lost two hundred galleons to Crabbe on a bet over who could drink more Firewhisky before throwing up, or the time he got involved with a group of psychopaths bent on purging the wizarding world from anyone whose bloodline did not live up to their standards of purity. He had done plenty in his life that he wished he could take back, but having sex with Hermione that night had to top the list.

He ranked it above murder and mayhem, that's how stupid a decision it was.

They dressed in silence, studiously avoiding looking at each other. The cramped office suddenly felt too small for all the things between them, the silence oppressive and heavy. Even now he could still feel her arms around him, could still taste her on his lips. He didn't know if he wanted to reach out for her again or if he wanted to set his skin on fire. He didn't know if there was a difference.

"Draco," she said, looking over her shoulder.

He turned, straightening his collar. "If it were always this easy to get laid, I'd save a fortune on dinners."

There were times when he thought he was an ass. There were times when he was sure of it.

Hermione looked away without replying, and that was somehow worse than a cutting retort. Draco picked up his discarded cloak from the arm of the sofa and made his way to his office, which was what he should have done to begin with.

The fire dying down in the fireplace flared up when he walked in. He picked up the jar of Floo powder, only to smash it against the opposite wall. What in Merlin's name was wrong with him? Why couldn't he just leave well enough alone?

He didn't want to hurt her, and that was God's honest truth, except that he did, often, with a violence that scared him. Because the him who adored her, who was crazy about her, lived in the same place as the him who hated her, who seemed unable to forgive her even after all this time. And while one wanted nothing more than to see her every day, and talk to her, and argue over policy changes, and scheduling issues, and that stupid electric kettle of hers, the other one wanted to press until it hurt.

It was a child's impulse, but Draco had always been too fond of cutting off his nose to spite his face.

He spent a restless night, constantly waking up and unable to rest even when he slept. In the morning he couldn't remember any of the dreams haunting him. Giving sleep up as a hopeless cause, he got up early. He wasn't looking forward to the day ahead, even less to seeing Hermione, but staying in bed unable to think of anything else was driving him crazy.

There weren't many people around when he got to the Ministry, and there was no sign of the witch. He glanced at her empty office in passing, his mind immediately flooded by images of last night's events. Merlin, he was a fool.

Ginny Weasley was already at her desk.

"Weasley, a word," he called without stopping.

The Weaslette followed him into his office after a minute, accompanied by a floating piece of parchment and quill.

"You hollered, oh mighty one?" she asked.

She was the only Weasley he could stand, partly because she reminded him of Blaise, but mostly because she had no problems sharing the candy she tucked away everywhere, from her desk to her person, to every nook and cranny around the office.

"The Remembrance Ball is back on the schedule," he said.

The Remembrance Ball was traditionally held at the end of Remembrance Week, a week-long commemoration of the victors and fallen of the Second Wizarding War. This year the ball had been cancelled due to budget cuts.

"Are we no longer headed for an economic apocalypse?"

"We are, but we're having a party first."

"How very daring of us." Her quill started scratching at the parchment. "Does Hermione know about this? 'Cause I can tell you right now she won't be happy."

"It's a good thing you work for me and not for her, then."

"Well, actually—"

"Get on with it, Weasley."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Malfoy. I'm just saying. So where are we having this ball we can't afford?"

"Malfoy Manor."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at that, but refrained from commenting.

"You understand we have less than a month to put this thing together?" she asked instead.

"It's good I have such an efficient staff, then."

"I hope you realise organising parties is not in my job description," she said as the parchment flipped itself over and the quill started scribbling notes on the other side.

"It's not in mine either, yet here we are."

She was quiet for a moment, before asking, "So what else did Parkinson get out of you in exchange for getting the Wizengamot to back off?"

He cracked a smile at that. It was the other reason he liked Ginny. She was the only one with brains in that family of hers.

"That's for me to know. Now crack on."

"Aye, aye, captain."

She was almost at the door when she turned back, fishing a Chocolate Frog out of her pocket and putting it on his desk.

"You seem like you need that more than me."

That Chocolate Frog was the high point of his day.

Hermione was avoiding him. He could tell that she was avoiding him because suddenly he was seeing a lot more of Colin Creevey on subjects he should have been discussing with her.

Colin Creevey needed his signature on the revised Dragon blood quotas for the year. Colin Creevey wanted his views on the draft of a Magical Cooperation Agreement with France. Colin Creevey thought that if he was determined to spend resources they did not have on a ball, he should at least have the good sense to send invitations to foreign dignitaries.

Draco grabbed a Sphinx-shaped paperweight that had been a present from the Egyptian ambassador.

"Creevey," he said, "next time you come into my office, I'm going to throw this at your head. Now, where the bloody hell is Granger?"

Colin gulped. "I couldn't say, Minister."

Not half an hour later, Loony Lovegood was in his office with a copy of his speech to the Healers' union.

"Get the fuck out."

Luna left the speech on his desk, with a suggestion that if he too was feeling the harmful effect of too many Nargle spores in the air — a common affliction that time of year — mandrake root tea was just the thing.

Blaise watched her receding form with a frown.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"Why do you think I did anything?"

"Because I know you, and if Granger is giving you the silent treatment, it's definitely something you did. Is this about the—"

"No."

"Because she won't be happy about that."

"It'll be fine."

It wasn't fine. Early that afternoon, while he and Blaise were discussing the latest Auror report on the Neal Patel case, Hermione stormed into his office.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" She threw a folder on the desk with a look that plainly said she'd rather be throwing it at his head.

"There it is," Blaise said with a smirk.

"You gave her back the Education Reform Act? Are you freaking serious?" She was incensed, but Draco was actually relieved. At least when she was yelling at him, they had to be in the same room. "Do you have any idea what we went through to get it approved? It's already been passed into law!"

"Technically it's not passed into law until I sign it, and I haven't."

Hermione called him something that made Blaise burst out laughing.

Pansy had driven a hard bargain. The Remembrance Ball was merely the cherry on top of the cake, and mostly because she was the sort of sociopath who thought making a former Death Eater host a party in honour of the victors of a war he had lost was funny. No, what she had really wanted in exchange for calling off her warring judges was the scrapping of the Education Reform Act, one of the last things they had managed to pass — over her objections — before the Neal Patel affair had made the court collectively decide they would rather be drawn and quartered than do anything that might be even remotely construed as cooperative.

The Act modernised and improved the Hogwarts curriculum, provided grants for disadvantaged students and established a Muggle Parents Outreach Programme. It also established standardised requirements for teaching positions, improved the security checks on the school, and overturned the school's ban on Squibs and non-human magical creatures. It was to be the most comprehensive overhaul of the magical education system in over a hundred years.

Pansy hated it with a passion.

"It was the only way to get the Wizengamot off our backs," he said.

"We will never get it passed again."

"Who cares if we can pass it if we can't pass anything else?"

"All the children who would have benefited from the provisions on it might," she all but yelled.

Draco turned to his Chief of Staff. "A little help here?"

"That's politics, Granger," Blaise said with a shrug. "You win some, you lose some."

"Well, I'm shocked to see all the pure-bloods in agreement on this."

Draco's expression darkened. "Piss off, Granger. You don't get to make it about that. I worked as hard on that piece of legislation as anyone else in this office."

"Yeah, and then you gave it away for a bit of cleavage over dinner. Well done."

And with that she stomped off.

"Told you she'd not take it well."

Rather than reply, Draco marched after her, following her into her office and banging the door shut after them.

"What the bloody hell do you think gives you the right to talk to me like that?" He didn't even care that he was yelling. "I'll remind you that I am still Minister for Magic and that you work for me."

"Fine," she yelled back, her arms crossed over her chest.

"When you get elected to office, you'll get to decide policy. Until then, kindly keep your opinions to yourself and do as you're told."

"Fine." She looked as someone who'd dearly love to share her opinions with him in the form of an Unforgivable.

He turned to leave, then quickly turned back.

"And next time you want something signed, or discussed, or changed, kindly come find me yourself instead of sending Happy and Dopey." The Muggle Liaison Office kept him apprised of Muggle literature. He knew things.

"As you wish, _Minister_." She spat the last word like a curse.

The day, which had not been stellar up to that point, went swiftly downhill from there. Hermione was no longer avoiding him, but he almost wished she were. It was a whole afternoon of "Yes, Minister," "No, Minister," "As you say, Minister," "Right away, Minister." He was about ready to strangle her. She didn't do or say anything directly insubordinate, and was to all outward appearance a model of unreserved cooperation, but he recognised her sudden meekness for what it was — a sham designed to drive him insane.

During a meeting with the office heads of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, after the tenth "As you prefer, Minister," of the day, he finally snapped.

"Madam Secretary, are you entirely devoid of opinions today?"

Potter frowned, but Blaise smirked in a way that made Draco want to punch him. Literally the only reason Blaise was in the meeting was because, in his own words, he had never been one to pass on a show.

"Why, Minister," she said innocently, "I can't help it if today our opinions converge so perfectly in every way."

Blaise laughed himself into a coughing fit at that. It made Draco long for the good old days when Ministers could get their Chiefs of Staff drowned in the Thames.

"You should have learnt by now not to fight wars you can't win, old friend," Blaise said after the meeting.

"Piss of, Blaise."

Zabini threw up his arms in a gesture of mock surrender, and Draco stormed off to the comforting seclusion of his office. He banged his door shut behind him, which did very little to ease his need to break something. Rather than give in to the impulse, he slumped down on his chair, closing his eyes. He had broken enough.

The scrapping of the Education Reform Act was always going to mean a fight, and well he knew it. They had all worked hard on it, and fought tooth and nail to get it approved by a group of obstinate, unimaginative old farts that had very little love for what they considered to be the imprudent, reckless, and ill-advised legislative adventures of their Minister. Getting it passed had taken a great deal of political pressure, arm-twisting and favour-calling, to say nothing of an amount of luck they could not hope to replicate. Hermione would never have taken its loss well.

But before, it would have been fine. They would have argued, and ranted, and yelled, and at the end of the day they would have gone for a drink at the White Hart, and made bets on how long it would take George, the waiter, to drag himself away from whoever he happened to be chatting up that day to come and take their orders. And if they were lucky, they would have spent a quiet evening talking and plotting revenge against Pansy and her minions. And if they were less lucky, other staffers would have started to arrive before long, because somehow word had spread that this one Muggle pub was a great place to hang out after work, and for reasons mysterious to him everyone seemed to have no problem getting their hands on Muggle money.

Before.

He opened his eyes, staring at the door across from him without actually seeing it. It took a fool to do that much self-inflicted damage on a whim. An evil spirit had dared him to kiss her and he had. Because he had wanted to. Because he couldn't remember the last time he had, and that bothered him. Because she made it hard for him to think clearly, and sometimes for him to think at all. It had taken years for them to get back to a place of peaceful co-existence, a place that was sometimes maddening and often frustrating, and that he wouldn't have ruined for the world.

Except that he had, because he was that sort of an idiot.

He got up with a sigh, heading towards the door. Enough of that. They would talk, and he would apologise, and everything would go back to normal. They once again had a Wizengamot they could work with, and there was plenty to do. And if he needed to win his way back to her good graces with a house-elf protection programme, that's what he would do. He could be crafty like that.

When he reached her office, it was deserted.

"Creevey, where's Hermione?" he asked, turning back.

"Left for the day."

"Already?"

"It's almost seven."

It was _only_ seven. Hermione usually worked late — most of them did. Nearly all the desks on Level One were still occupied with staffers busy at work.

Well, it was no matter. He could wait until tomorrow. It was no problem. Tomorrow would be just fine. It would keep. They would talk tomorrow.

He went back to his desk and picked up the first of many interdepartmental reports he still had to go through that day. He read the first sentence and then got up again and quickly transfigurated his robes into Muggle clothes.

It couldn't wait until tomorrow.

He went by the White Hart, but the witch wasn't there. Before he could walk out again, George dragged him to a table where two very young and exceedingly attractive women were sitting, and proceeded to introduce him to Emily and Olivia, who were from Scotland and were visiting London for the first time, and wouldn't it be great if he and Draco were to show them around town?

Having managed to convey to George how little interest he had in showing Emily and Olivia around town, Draco made his way to Hermione's place. He had a whole speech prepared in his head. It was a good speech. It was a speech about mistakes and forgiveness, and about how sometimes he was an ass and that he was sorry. It was a speech about how going forward he would remember to discuss policy changes with his Senior Undersecretary, and had he told her about the great house-elf protection programme he was working on?

It was a good speech, and he was still going over the finer points when he reached her floor. The words he meant to say were still clear in his mind when he got to the door, and he could still recall every last word when he knocked. But somewhere between the time he knocked and the moment she opened the door, all the words fled, leaving only a bitter aftertaste. What had he broken that she hadn't broken first and worse? And maybe they were beyond fixing. Maybe those few months had been nothing more than a small interlude — brief and sweet, and not meant to last. Because there was no changing the past. There was no changing any of it.

Hermione looked surprised when she answered the door. "Draco, what—"

Draco pulled her to him, cutting off what she was about to say with a kiss that was as spiteful as it was misguided. He was tired of fighting, and tired of denying himself the things he wanted. If he couldn't have what he'd lost, he'd take what he could get.

Hermione gasped against his mouth and pushed him off, looking for a moment so mad that she could hit him. And then she closed the space between them, kissing him in turn because as it turned out, there was not an ounce of common sense between them. She backed blindly into the flat and he followed without letting go, pushing the door shut in passing.


	7. Interlude

It was a recipe for disaster, and Hermione had no illusions to the contrary. That first night at the office had been a mistake, and while she knew better than to repeat it, repeat it she did, with a willingness undisturbed by prudence or judgement or common sense. It was the foolishness of a child spinning in place, knowing without caring that sooner or later she was bound to lose her balance.

Her small London flat — cluttered and draughty, and full of kinks — became a place the world could not touch. Neither politics, nor pure-blood witches, nor Ronald Weasley existed past her front door, and that was magic that could not be found in the core of a wand.

They didn't speak, as if words could shatter whatever that was between them, choosing instead to express themselves with hands and lips that touched and parted and teased, until rational thought became a physical impossibility.

It was not a relationship, and Hermione did not allow herself to forget it. It was just an echo — bittersweet and heartbreaking and bound to fade.

There were nights when he stayed away, nights when he still found his way to posh restaurants with women Hermione hated on principle, and she'd swear to herself that it had been the last time. The last time they had kissed. The last time they had touched. The last time she had forgot that he was a prat. Because recent evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, she too had her pride and self-respect, and he didn't get to treat her like that.

But then he'd knock on her door, and pride and self-respect would go the way of common sense, not to be seen again for the rest of the evening.

It was a foolish, misbegotten, misguided thing, but if she could not get what she wanted, she'd take what she could get, for however long she could manage.


	8. The fourth estate

Draco managed to get into the lift just before the door closed.

"Sorry, Minister," the short, plump witch manning it said. "Didn't see you coming. Floor?"

"Level three."

He had been reviewing the latest report on the murder of Neal Patel when a very smug Blaise dropped by his office to share the extraordinary news that Nicholas Dennings, owner of the Daily Prophet, had just walked into the meeting of the committee for the regulation of the press. Blaise had reason enough to be smug. Dennings had to be feeling pretty nervous if he chose to dignify them with his presence.

The committee for the regulation of the press — known colloquially as the Lansing committee after the judge chairing it - was working on new legislation concerning the establishment of a regulatory body to monitor the media. In a rare display of unity, both the Wizengamot and the office of the Minister felt that wizarding newspapers — namely, though not exclusively, the Prophet, but most specially the Prophet, and most definitely the Prophet — were in dire need of guidelines more conductive to responsible journalism or, failing that, anything worthy of that name.

All main wizard publications in the country had sent representatives to the committee, including the Daily Prophet, and Dennings could not be liking the sound of the reports he was getting back if he chose to make an appearance himself. He did not usually choose to mingle with the riff-raff.

Everyone but Dennings and Judge Lansing stood when the Minister for Magic walked in. Draco motioned for everyone to sit back down and took the seat Creevey had just vacated next to Weasley.

"Please, do not let me interrupt," he said. "I came only to listen. Carry on."

A lanky young clerk glanced over to Judge Lansing, who nodded, and he resumed the monotone reading of the document in front of him. Draco did not even try to pay attention to the words, his complete focus on the older wizard sitting across the table from him. Nicholas Dennings was a portly man of advanced years, who might have looked grandfatherly if not for the direct, almost disconcerting way in which tried to stare down everyone he met. His unwavering gaze was now fixed on Draco, who stared back with unabashed unconcern. He had looked in the face of Lord Voldemort, and slept under the same roof as Bellatrix Lestrange. He refused to be intimidated by a glorified paper boy.

The clerk, who was still drawling on about the intricacies of the work still ahead of them, almost jumped out of his chair when Dennings's powerful voice boomed next to him.

"Minister, let's just cut to the chase," he said. "I am a busy person, and I'm assuming you must be too, so let's stop wasting each other's time and just solve this issue, man to man."

Judge Jane Lansing raised an eyebrow at that, thoroughly unimpressed, but Draco smirked. "What can I do for you, Mr Dennings?"

"You can put an end to this farce. This sort of committee has no place in a modern democracy. The wizarding community will not look kindly on an executive bent on stifling free speech."

"We have no quarrel with free speech, sir." Judge Lansing pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. "It is enshrined in law and there it will continue. But the right of the press to free speech does not preclude an individual's right to privacy, nor the right of the public to be informed in a responsible and truthful way."

"That's rubbish, ma'am, if you'll forgive my saying so. It's not the place of the government to dictate to the press what constitutes responsible reporting."

There were rumours of agreement from the other members of the press around the room.

"That may well be, sir," Draco said. "But it is the place of the government to ensure the press does not use its position to harass, coerce and intimidate."

There was nothing friendly or warm in Nicholas Dennings's smile. "Minister, if I meant to harass, coerce or intimidate, I would not be sitting here having this pleasant exchange of ideas. I would instead point out that if you mean to pursue this inadvisable course of action, the Prophet will not sit idly by. And we can make your life very difficult."

Judge Lansing was not a tall woman, but she seemed to gain a few inches as she sat up straighter, her expression stormy and forbidding. "Do you mean to threaten us, sir?"

"Merely warn, ma'am."

"Your warnings might have been more effective," Draco said, "if you hadn't already been making our life quite difficult these past few months. As things stand, I am rather unimpressed."

"Perhaps I might impress you more, Minister, by sharing with you the very interesting story I've just recently heard about the Senior Undersecretary's parents." Draco felt more than saw Ginny stiffen on the chair next to him. "It's great stuff. Front page material."

Draco's fingers coiled tighter around his wand, the curse he would not say burning the back of his throat. He badly wanted to wipe the smug grin off the man's face, but he wasn't enough of a fool to do it in a room full of journalists and a judge.

"Everyone out who doesn't answer to 'your honour' or doesn't work for me," he said instead. Dennings knew what he knew, but there was no reason to give anyone else a scoop.

The young clerk looked from Draco to the judge as if wondering exactly what "work for me" meant. Did it mean people who worked on Level One? People who worked for the Ministry? But Judge Lansing worked for the Ministry, and the Minister had singled her out, so did that mean he had to leave? Or should he stay and take notes? He didn't know. He didn't know and it was giving him anxiety. Judge Lansing put him out of his misery by waving him away, and he hurried out of the room before someone else's ambiguity could throw him into another spin.

In the end only Draco, Judge Lansing, Creevey, Weasley and Dennings remained behind. Nicholas Dennings was looking so self-satisfied that Draco wondered that there was enough room in such close quarters to accommodate both him and his ego.

"That was a very sensible decision, Minister," the old man said.

"Do not misunderstand me, Mr Dennings." Draco leaned forward. "I just did not want an audience when I told you that the next time you threaten me or any of my people, they will find your body in a ditch." Judge Lansing cleared her throat and shot him a disapproving look but did not intervene. "Do not think for a moment that you can use the Grangers to blackmail me. When Hermione Granger was fifteen years old, she trapped Rita Skeeter in a jar for a week. She does not need me to protect her from the likes of you. Go after her or her family, and one day you'll wake up to your empire in ruins, and everything you love turned to ashes." He paused for a moment, before adding, "Actually, do go after her. I'd rather like to see that."

Dennings was no longer smiling. "Do not think you can scare me, _boy_. Your father never could, and I'm not afraid of his whelp either. There's been plenty of stories I've been dying to run. How do you like the one about the Minister for Magic who was cuckolded by the woman who now runs his government?"

It was all Draco could do not to draw his wand. Judge Lansing placed a calming hand on his arm.

"Thank you, Mr Dennings," she said, "for so clearly illustrating to me the vital importance of the work of this committee. And I will personally suggest to the Chief Warlock that a new committee be launched for the sole purpose of investigating the Daily Prophet. Trying to intimidate public officials might be commonplace in the circles you move in, but I do not hold with such things."

"I would strongly advise against that, ma'am."

"No doubt you would, Mr Dennings." The door opened and two Aurors walked in. "Aurors Sadoski and Porter will escort you off the premises. Good day to you, sir."

Dennings pushed his chair back, giving them all a murderous look before following the Aurors out.

Draco knew it had been a stupid move even before the door closed behind Dennings. Satisfying, but stupid. Going around picking fights with the Daily Prophet was never smart.

"Well, I have to say that was far more exciting than our usual meetings," Ginny said, gathering her scrolls.

"Don't think so hard, Minister." Jane Lansing got up, patting him once on the shoulder. "I can hear you worrying from here. He'll print, what he'll print. The Ministry will carry on."

It was easy for her to say so. Judge Lansing was as dull as a doorknob. She had no family, few close friends, and no interests besides the law and her collection of miniature centaurs. It was easy for someone like her, with no skeletons in her closet, to stand up to someone like Nicholas Dennings. Draco had plenty of skeletons in his.

"Do you want me to set Moody on him?" Ginny asked as they walked back to Level One. "'Cause that boy knows how to make bodies disappear."

"What I want is for you to keep quiet about this," he said, wishing he too knew how to make bodies disappear. "Same goes for you, Creevey."

Both readily agreed to keep the meeting to themselves, so naturally Hermione was at his door not an hour after. Draco took one look at her distressed expression and made a mental note to have Weasley thrown into Azkaban.

"Do you need something?" he asked, turning his attention back to the letter he was writing. He couldn't remember the last time she had been in his office. They had taken to avoiding each other at the Ministry, both trying very hard to pretend everything was fine by making it abundantly clear that it was not.

Hermione closed the door and walked up to his desk, placing a rolled up scroll on top of it.

"What is this?" he asked, glancing at it.

"My letter of resignation."

His quill paused on the parchment, a small pool of ink forming around the tip. He looked up at the witch without touching the scroll, and Hermione looked back at him, all distress replaced with determination.

"You are not resigning." Not if he had anything to say about it.

"Yes, Draco, I am."

He put the quill down. "Since when are you scared of the likes of Nicholas Dennings? I can handle him."

"I'm not afraid of Dennings." She crossed her arms over her chest. "But I won't be the stick he uses to beat you over the head with. There's too much history here. You know it as well as I do. Too much he can use."

"I don't care." He would teach Dennings not to mess with a Malfoy.

"You don't care _now_. You will once your ratings start slipping again. I'm sparing you the trouble of having to fire me later."

He got up so abruptly his chair almost fell back. "What have I ever done to deserve _that_? You think I would fire you over my ratings? Exactly how much of an ass do you think I am?"

Hermione had the good grace to blush at that. "Spare me, Draco," she said anyway, holding his gaze. "You're not exactly indifferent to ratings."

It was as if she had slapped him. For a moment he couldn't feel anything, and then he could feel nothing but rage — rage at Dennings and that rag he called a newspaper, rage at Lansing and her lack of concern for the vitriol of the press, and rage at Hermione, always Hermione, who he had once swore would never be in a position to hurt him again. More fool him.

"Suit yourself," he said, forcing himself to sit back down. "I accept your resignation. Please clear out your office today. I don't want to see you here again."

She nodded without replying. For a moment it looked as if she mean to say something else, but then she turned and left, taking with her all his anger and leaving nothing in its stead but emptiness. The offencive scroll burst into flames the moment she disappeared from sight, and Draco picked it up by the other end, holding it until the fire got too close to his fingers. He relished the pain for a second — a pain that was physical and tangible and real — before letting go of the parchment.


	9. You just decide to

Hermione stopped on the steps, people flowing in and out of the manor on either side of her. She had never been there the whole time she and Draco had been together, and she had resented him for it at the time — what was so wrong with her that he wouldn't take her to his home? — but she didn't want to go in now. She had only been there once, almost fifteen years ago, and the memory of it still woke her up at night sometimes — white teeth flashing in the dark, the Dark Mark too close to her face, and a voice croaking "Crucio" drowned by screams that existed in and all around her.

No, she did not want to go in.

It wasn't about what she wanted, of course. Zabini had gone to great lengths to remind her that she still was the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic — until the end of the week anyway — and that as such it was her job, nay, her duty, to make an appearance at the Remembrance Ball.

So there she was, dressed up like a doll in a violet evening gown not meant for standing outside in a February evening, wearing shoes not meant to walk any distance greater than from one end of the ballroom to the other, and rooted in place, wondering what had possessed her to listen to Blaise Zabini when he had showed up at her door offering her a job, and what had possessed her to listen to him now.

Hermione took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and forced her legs to move. It was just a house, and dead Death Eaters did not scare her.

It took her a good fifteen minutes to manage to push her way past the hall. The salon was overflowing with people decked out like Christmas trees, and the light bounced off necklaces and bracelets and rings, making it look as if the whole room was glowing. Despite many of the great windows being open, it was oppressively hot inside, and Hermione was only too happy to pick up a glass from a floating tray. At least the champagne was cool.

It wasn't long before she spotted Draco in the crowd. The wizard was standing by a window across the dance floor, engaged in animated conversation with Pansy Parkinson and Kingsley Shacklebolt. The impeccably tailored dress robes fit him to perfection, and never had he looked more at home than there, surrounded by all the splendour and grandeur of Malfoy Manor, watched over by the proud portraits of past Malfoys.

His gaze fell on her and his expression hardened for a moment before morphing once again into a smiling mask as he replied to whatever it was Kingsley had just said. Hermione ignored the painful weight on her chest. She had done the right thing. Draco's numbers were up, and things were looking good again. And he had worked so hard for it. She would not let Nicholas Dennings use her to hurt him. She had hurt him enough. Even if Draco was mad now, it would be better in the long run. It had to be.

Hermione sighed and turned to go find Harry, and in doing so almost walked face first into the chest of the man next to her.

"Oh, I beg your— Ron!" The night just kept getting better and better. "I didn't know you were back in Britain." She'd have to remember to murder Ginny later.

Ron blushed slightly, but shot her a smile that hadn't changed since he was eleven years old. "Came back for Christmas and ended up staying. Mum and dad kept complaining I never visit, so… How's everything?"

Everything was a mess, and getting messier by the minute, but she smiled anyway.

"Everything is good. It's good to see you," she said and meant it. "Are your parents here?"

Ron shook his head. "Remembrance Week always reminds mum of Fred. But Bill and Fleur are around here somewhere."

"Ron, Hermione!" Harry threw his arms around his friends, managing to spill most of his champagne. "I love you guys."

"How many of these have you had, mate?" Ron took the glass away before it also ended up on the floor.

"Not nearly enough," Harry said. "Merlin, I hate Remembrance Week."

Hermione could sympathise. It was a week of reminders of things she would rather forget.

"How about we go out for some air?" Ron said, grabbing Harry's arm.

"Sure," Harry said, shaking his arm free. "But first, listen up you two. This is important." He gestured for them to move closer and then pointed his index finger at each of them in turn. "Do. Not. Sleep. Together. Again." Ron blushed furiously at that and Hermione wished in vain for a hole to open up on the ground and swallow her whole. "I am serious," Harry continued. "Last time you did, you both ended up on opposite corners of the globe and left me all alone. That's not cool."

Hermione kissed Harry on the cheek, ignoring the sudden knot in her throat. "Promise," she said.

"Yeah, mate," Ron said, running a hand through his hair. "We're not going anywhere."

Hermione watched as Ron led Harry away through the crowd. They were two of her favourite people in the whole wide world — even after everything that had happened.

One night. That's all it had taken to wreck everything. One night of too much to drink, and too much shared history, and too many shared horrors. They had the same scars, she and Ron, woke up to the same voices whispering in the dark. He had been there for all the big things — Hogwarts, and Voldemort, and the war. And that night, when ghosts and memories had hovered just a little too close, he had been there too — someone broken in the same places, missing the same pieces.

It had been right at the beginning of her relationship with Draco. She hadn't known then that he would become someone precious to her, someone she could not imagine living without. And when she did know, she told him. She told him everything. Because she was young, because she was foolish, because she thought it was the right thing to do.

She loved Ron. She would always love Ron. He was a part of her, like Harry was. But she wasn't in love with him, hadn't been even back then.

"Miss Granger, what a delightful surprise."

Hermione schooled her features into a smile and turned to greet the Egyptian ambassador.

* * *

Draco had excused himself and made his way towards the bar, driven by a powerful need for Firewhisky. He shouldn't — he had already drank plenty — but Ronald Weasley in his house called for Firewhisky. His expression was forbidding enough that no one came to disturb him, and he drank in silence, unable to tear his gaze away from Hermione. He had no trouble picking her out in the crowd as she moved across the room, talking to this dignitary and that, exchanging a word with a staffer, smiling at friends, and strangers, and old comrades in arms. Smiling at _him_. Draco hadn't even known he was back in the country.

He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the witch next to him until she spoke.

"Has it ever occurred to you," Ginny said, accepting a drink from the bartender, "that you could stop making yourself miserable by just forgiving her already?"

Draco took another sip of whiskey. "Stay out of my personal life, Weasley."

"I would, but you're dumb." He glared at her, but Ginny had always been remarkably immune to his glaring, and carried on without a care in the world. "You're dumb, and she's dumb, and you both make dumb decisions, and it's just painful for the rest of us to watch."

"How much do you enjoy having a job?"

Ginny waved the threat away. "She made a mistake," she said instead. "She made a mistake once, and you'd never have known about it if she hadn't told you."

"I wish she hadn't," he said before he could stop himself. Sometimes he thought that was the part he couldn't forgive. Not the cheating, but that she had told him about it. Everything would have been fine, if only she hadn't told him about it.

"Well, as I said: dumb." She was quiet for a few seconds, before adding, "But who among us hasn't done a dumb thing or two? Have you never done anything for which you needed forgiving, Malfoy?"

And just so he could not possibly mistake her meaning, she pinched his left arm before moving away and disappearing into the crowd.

Draco motioned to the bartender for a refill. Maybe he really was a hypocrite, but he'd be a hypocrite with a fresh drink. It was all very well for Blaise-But-It's-Been-Three-Years-Zabini and Ginny-Have-You-Seen-The-Black-Mark-On-Your-Arm-Lately-Weasley to torment him with their needless advice, but they didn't know — they couldn't understand — what it was like for him.

They hadn't been in the room, that day. They hadn't felt the rage and the sense of betrayal, and the complete lack of surprise — for why would someone like her want someone like him?

He spotted Hermione in the crowd once again, close to the far end of the salon. The witch had just picked up a new glass of champagne from a floating tray and was standing by herself, watching the twirling couples in the centre of the room. Feeling the weight of his gaze, she turned her head towards him, and Draco raised his glass in a mock salute. She raised hers back, tilting her head in what could have passed for a greeting.

Once upon a time — in a world of not so long ago — he would have crossed the room and asked her to dance, and once upon a time she would have said yes. He wondered what she would say now.

Hermione turned away from him and walked towards the drawing room.

"Minister, what a great pleasure to see you." Mr Pill, the head of the Healers' Union, took Draco's hand hostage, shaking it enthusiastically. "I had been meaning to ask you—"

"I'm terribly sorry, Pill." He could no longer see Hermione. "Please don't leave before we talk. There's an urgent matter I have to attend to."

Ignoring the part of his mind that still had a passing acquaintance with reason, he made after her. She didn't get to just quit and then show up here, in his home, as if that were a perfectly fine thing to do, as if nothing had happened.

Hang Ginny and her sanctimonious drivel. He forgave nothing — not Ronald Weasley; not her showing up at the Ministry after three years of being Merlin knows where and bossing him around for months on end only to quit in a display of cowardice that would have embarrassed a Hufflepuff; not even that ridiculous electric kettle of hers. There ought to be a law against people who insisted on insulting the sensibility of their betters with Muggle contraptions.

It was not easy to move in the crowded room — and for him harder than most, as he had to contend with an unconscionable number of people who insisted on shaking his hand — but he finally managed to make it to the drawing room. It was less crowded there, and he immediately saw Hermione.

The witch had walked right into the welcoming arms of Gary James, an Australian spiritualist who for months had been trying to make an appointment with her to discuss the immediate danger posed to the Houses of Parliament by the vengeful spirit of Guy Fawkes.

"It could blow up at any moment, ma'am," he insisted. "Something must be done. If only I were allowed to conduct a seance inside the Palace of Westminster, I could then persuade the ghost to give up his unholy quest and depart form this mortal plane."

He prattled on, but Hermione did not seem to be listening. The witch kept stealing glances at a spot by the fireplace, her face pale and her expression serious. Her laced fingers only moderately succeeded in keeping her hands from shaking.

Draco knew what she was looking at; the memory of it was as vivid in his mind as it had to be in hers.

He should never have let Pansy convince him to hold the ball at Malfoy Manor.

He crossed the room, coming to stand by her side, and cut off Mr James, who was in the middle of a no doubt fascinating story about the time he had successfully convinced the ghost of Mary Queen of Scots to stop haunting a small whiskey shop in Princes Street.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but I require a moment with the Madam Secretary."

Hermione followed him without argument, stepping out onto the terrace before him. It was not snowing, but the night was cold enough that no one else had decided to brave the elements. They moved to the far end of the terrace, just outside the circle of glowing light cast through the open door.

Everything was quiet and dark out on the grounds around the Manor. There was no moon, but the night sky was full of bright stars that shone millions of years away, unconcerned by the petty worries of mortals half a universe away.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice too loud in the relative silence.

Hermione nodded, letting out a shaky breath. "It was a very long time ago." Placing her hands on the balustrade for support, she surveyed the frozen grounds.

He did likewise, his right hand just touching her left one. "I'm sorry," he said without looking at her.

"For what?"

"You know for what."

There were nights when Hermione tossed and turned, her rest disturbed by ghosts that made her whimper and cry out in her sleep. It had never occurred to him until that very moment to wonder how much of that was on him.

Hermione shook her head. "You're not responsible for the actions of your crazy, psychotic aunt, Draco."

Maybe not, but he was responsible for his own.

"She wasn't the only one in the room."

Hermione's hand was warm against his where they touched, her pinkie finger draped casually over his. She was silent for a few moments before saying, "We all did things during the war we are not proud of. Me and you along with all the rest."

He snatched his hand away, suddenly unconscionably angry. Angry at her. Angry at himself. Angry at the seventeen year old who had stood by and watched Bellatrix torture her without doing a thing to help, without raising a single objection. Because it was easier. Because he was scared. Because he would not risk his neck for someone like her.

"I don't understand why you're okay with that," he said in a whisper that could have been a scream. "I don't understand how you just forgive something like that. How any of you do."

Ginny and Creevey, who had both lost brothers during the war. Lovegood, who had been held a prisoner in this very house. Hannah Abbott, whose mother had fallen to a Death Eater's wand. So many others who had lost loved ones to him and people like him, right before they went and elected him Minister for Magic. It beggared belief.

Hermione arched an eyebrow at his outburst. They didn't speak about the war. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. As if it had happened to some other people, in some other country — strangers going about a different life.

"Bellatrix is dead," she said as if it were self-evident. "All those responsible — they're dead or rotting in a cell. And do you think that Death Eaters were the only ones who did unspeakable things during the war?"

Yes, he did, if only because he knew in painful detail the savagery perpetrated by his masked brethren. The savagery perpetrated by himself.

"You forgive others," Hermione continued, she who had always sided with the angels, "so that you can forgive yourself, and then you move on."

Maybe the Weaslette was right and they were both idiots — the girl who forgave everything and the boy who forgave nothing.

Ever the master of changing the subject, Hermione smiled sheepishly at him and said, "Now, are you going to lend me your jacket or are you just going to let me freeze out here in a strapless gown?"

He refused to be teased back into good humour, but removed his jacket anyway, placing it over her shoulders. She turned towards the darkened landscape, tilting her face up towards the sky.

"Stop brooding, Malfoy," she said without looking at him. "It's a beautiful night, and this _is_ a party."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and edged closer to her without replying, almost but not quite close enough to touch. He didn't get her. He did not understand the first thing about her. He didn't understand how she could stand there, not fifty feet from where she had howled in pain as Bellatrix set all her nerve endings on fire and talk about forgiveness. He did not understand why anyone, let alone a witch, chose to live in a place that was one council meeting away from condemned.

Mostly, he did not understand how she was standing there, next to him — the boy who had called her a Mudblood, once upon a time; the boy who had stood by and watched as she screamed herself hoarse under the Cruciatus Curse.

"Come back to work," he said, breaking the silence.

Hermione snorted. "I told you. You don't need to feel guilty about—"

"Oh, hang guilt." His guilt was like the tide — it rose and it fell, but mostly fell, and it never lasted. Someone likely to be burdened with an overabundance of guilt could never have done the things he had. "I'm not asking because I feel _guilty_. I'm asking because—" He stopped short, his tongued tied into knots by all the things he wouldn't say.

 _Because I don't want to do this without you._

 _Because I lost you once and I don't want to lose you again._

 _Because one day I'm going to figure out why sea creatures follow Lovegood around, how to get on Gallagher's good side, and where Blaise hides the bodies, and you're the one I want to tell all about it._

"Because what?" Hermione asked, closing his jacket more tightly around her.

"Because if I have to give Nott his job back, one of us is going to end up on the other end of an Unforgivable."

Hermione chuckled, but her mirth quickly turned into a rueful smile and she shook her head.

"Dennings has nothing on Nott," she said, her voice just a little off. "And he won't, if you two learn to play nice."

"Hermione, look at me." He touched a gentle hand to the low of her back. "Dennings can write what he wants. I don't care." The look she gave him was all scepticism, but it was the truest, most honest thing he had ever said. He was done trying to mitigate her loss with the approval of strangers. "Come back." He cupped her face with his hand, his other arm around her waist, and drew her closer to him. "Come back." His lips brushed hers, the ghost of a kiss. "Come back." She was a pocket of warmth in the frozen landscape, her lips soft and pliant as she kissed him back.

Maybe it was as easy as that. A little forgiveness, a little faith. A little trust in himself and in her that they could make it work, if they only tried. Maybe Ginny was right and all it took for him to stop making himself miserable was to simply — finally — let it go.

Hermione looked at him, her smile sweet and charming, and then wicked.

"I'll need a bigger office."

Draco's laughter was part relief and part amusement.

"You'll be lucky to keep your current one," he said, holding her tightly to him. "I have a good mind to turn it into a lounge."

"And a decent contract."

"Absolutely not. Your current one cost me a judge. It has sentimental value."

"And a pay rise."

"That you can have. Your flat is a disgrace."


	10. What kind of day has it been?

"We have a problem," Harry said from the door.

Hermione looked up from her work, but Harry had already disappeared. It was all very well for him to make dramatic announcements without even stopping to explain, but she had a problem right there too. Hungary refused to export any more dragon heartstring, which had thrown all the wand makers into a tizzy, and Portugal was flooding the cauldron market with cheap products, causing British manufacturers to threaten to go on strike. Would Harry like to deal with Hungary and Portugal? Because then Hermione might have time to care about his crisis.

Just then Blaise rushed past her door, followed by a none too amused Parkinson.

Hermione set down her quill with a sigh. Hungary and Portugal would have to wait.

When she got to Draco's office, he was laughing so hard he was almost in tears, and Blaise was clearly struggling to hide his mirth. Pansy looked furious, however, and neither Harry nor Auror Sadoski seemed to believe there was much cause for amusement. The former shook his head, looking grave, while the latter was about ready to burst into tears.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Oh, you'll love this," Draco said, and motioned towards Harry. "Tell her."

"Reese Moody has been arrested."

Hermione was stunned speechless for a moment. Reese had always been hotheaded, but for the Auror Office to arrest one of its own, he must have done something truly terrible.

"Was he brought to the Ministry?" she asked. He would need a lawyer. She would ask Nott for some names.

" _We_ didn't arrest him." Draco was like a child on Christmas morning. "He was arrested by the Muggles."

"He was _what_? How does an Auror get arrested by Muggle police?"

"That's not even the best part. Tell her."

Harry rolled his eyes at Draco's eagerness. "Reese was investigating the Neal Patel murder, and—"

"That case has been closed," Hermione said. The final report had been filed the week before.

"Auror Moody did not agree with the official conclusions of the Auror Office," Auror Sadoski said in a small voice. "He believed there was more to the story. That there were more people involved."

"So to uncover this great conspiracy," Harry said, "he broke into the house of a local pastor. The man came home to find Reese ransacking the place and knocked him out with a cane before calling the police."

"A cane?"

"The man was eighty-three years old."

Blaise made a strangled noise that quickly turned into a polite cough.

"Someone should have told him about 'constant vigilance'," he said with mock gravity, throwing Draco into new fits of laughter.

"This is no laughing matter." Pansy was incensed. "To have an Auror arrested like a common thief — it's a bloody disgrace. Potter, I don't know what sort of department you're running, but this is completely unacceptable."

"Yeah, Potter," Draco said, still laughing. "Perfectly disgraceful."

Pansy frowned at Draco. "You're looking mighty chirpy for the guy who has to go solve this mess with the Prime Minister."

Draco's laughter died in his throat, and his expression turned into one of dismay.

"No," he said with a groan. "I have dinner reservations. Let Moody enjoy some Muggle hospitality. It builds character."

"You were the one who went to great lengths to remind us of the limits of Muggle-Wizard jurisdiction." Pansy walked towards the door. "Call it karma." And with that she walked out.

Draco made a face. "Potter, keep your people on a tighter leash."

"I'll certainly try to. Come along, Sadoski."

Auror Sadoski was the perfect picture of misery as she followed Harry out of the room.

"Do I let Gallagher's office know you're going up?" Blaise asked.

"I suppose." Draco sighed. "Remind me again why we keep Moody employed."

"His uncle was a war hero and firing him would look bad."

"Oh yeah, that." Draco pushed his chair back, getting up. "Tell them I'll be up in five. Granger, hold on a second. There's an urgent matter we need to discuss."

He waited until Zabini was out of the room before grabbing Hermione's hand and drawing her to him, kissing her.

"Someone will see." She tried to push away from him, but Draco was both entirely unrepentant and entirely unconcerned with the open door.

"Let them." He cupped her face with his hands and kissed her again, sending a shiver down her spine. Hermione sighed happily, melting into him, allowing herself to forget for a moment that they were at the office and that it was completely inappropriate, and that there was work to be done — important, ministerial things to take care of, the details of which escaped her at the moment.

British wand makers and cauldron manufacturers would just have to solve their own problems, and Reese was welcome to try and break himself out of jail.

Draco tightened his arms around her before letting go, grinning smugly when she made a sound of protest.

"Now, now, Madam Secretary, this is a place of business."

"I loathe you."

"You love me."

She stuck her tongue out at him — insufferable, cocky prat that he was — but Draco merely laughed, picking up a scroll from a nearby bookcase.

"Here, this is for you."

Hermione took the offered scroll, immediately recognising the seal.

"From the Department of Mysteries."

Draco nodded. "It was misdelivered here. Threatened to have my brain locked in a jar when I almost opened it by mistake."

Unspeakables were nothing if not melodramatic. Hermione stashed the scroll in one of her pockets, away from Draco's boundless curiosity.

He arched an eyebrow expectantly, but she didn't take the bait.

"Isn't Gallagher waiting for you?" she asked.

His expression was all mock hurt. "Are you really not going to tell me what that is about?"

"Not a chance."

"Why the devil not?"

"Because I like your brain inside your head, where it belongs." She gave him a peck on the cheek.

"I'm moved by so much concern." Draco fell down on the sofa, arms draped leisurely over the back. "I don't suppose it has anything to do with the very polite letter I received from Nicholas Dennings apologising for any mistaken impression I might have had that he was trying to threaten me. He even sent me Quidditch season tickets. Insists the Prophet looks forward to a productive working relationship with this office."

Hermione's smile was more than a little self-satisfied. "Why, Draco, I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Zabini liked to solve problems by throwing money at them; Hermione favoured other methods of persuasion. "Maybe Mr Dennings simply had a change of heart."

A change of heart prompted by three Unspeakables, two remarkably chilling threats, and a very imaginative Hermione. Few people realised the amount of horrors kept away in the dark vaults of the Department of Mysteries masquerading as research. Dennings should have taken Rita Skeeter's advice and left her and the people she loved alone.

It was not how Hermione liked to handle things — pushing the boundaries of what was legal, proper, or morally acceptable was Zabini's hobby, not hers — but needs must.

"I don't suppose you want to handle Gallagher." Draco sighed. "He's a bloody nightmare."

"He's not as bad as that."

"Yes, he is. What does the law say about replacing the Prime Minister with three leprechauns in a trench coat?"

"The law frowns on it."

"More's the pity. It would be a great improvement." He paused for a moment. "We have to cancel our reservation."

"I know. I'll take care of it." Sitting down on the sofa next to him, she ran her fingers through his hair. "You could come by afterwards. Spend the night."

"Or," he said, grabbing her wrist and kissing it. " _You_ could come over. I'll have some dinner prepared."

"We could eat at my place. I don't live in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, you know?"

The look he gave her clearly indicated he knew nothing of the sort.

"I have house-elves," he said.

"I have a telephone. We'll order pizza."

"Malfoys don't eat pizza."

"Then Malfoys shall starve."

He traced the curve of her face with his free hand, smiling at her in a way that made her heart skip a beat. Without thinking, she closed the space between them, her lips brushing his in what would have been the chastest of kisses, if only Draco hadn't had other ideas. There was nothing chaste in the way he kissed her, nothing innocent in the way his arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer to him.

"Draco," Blaise said from the door, "unless you plan to explain to Gallagher that you kept him waiting because you were busy snogging Granger, I suggest you get going."

Hermione laughed and broke away, getting up and holding a hand to Draco to help him do likewise.

"To work, Minister," she said.

Draco sighed, but took the offered hand. "I'm surrounded by slave drivers."

He glanced at the mirror in the corner, straightening his robes, and walked over to the fireplace, where he picked up a handful of Floo powder.

"No pineapple," he said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"No pineapple?"

"In the pizza. Pineapple doesn't belong in pizza."

She rolled her eyes at a complaint that was as familiar as it was nonsensical.

"Get going."

"Yes, ma'am." He winked at her before throwing the powder at the fire with a clear, "10 Downing Street."

It was a curious thing, this happiness that could be found in staff meetings, and confidential reports, and arguments about dinner. Hermione — who had lived through war, and loss, and the consequences of her own stupidity — knew how fragile happiness was, how easy to break, but it only made her more determined to hold on to the things and the people precious to her. Because it was worth it. Because she knew better than to take things for granted. Because she would never again be enough of a fool to throw everything away on a whim

She had, within the walls of the Ministry, all the happiness she desired in the world — friends she adored, and a job she loved, and Draco. Always Draco.

She made her way back to her office, happily humming a wordless tune. Hungary and Portugal would have to wait for the morning. If she hurried, she could grab some things on the way home and actually cook dinner. Maybe Indian. Something with pineapple.

She had just sat at her desk when Nott and Luna came storming into her office.

"We have a problem," Luna said.

It was just one of those days.

"What's going on?"

"You know that imminent economic collapse?" Nott asked. "It just became a tad more imminent."

Hermione sighed. It would have to be pizza after all.

"Sit down and explain it to me from the beginning."

 **The end**

* * *

 **AN: Thank you everyone who read all the way through! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I had writing it. The Newsroom is one of my favourite shows in the world, and I absolutely adore Will and Mac, so writing this was an absolute treat.**

 **When I chose the prompt, I toyed for a while with the idea of setting the story at the Daily Prophet, simply changing the setting from a TV newsroom to the newsroom of a newspaper, but in the end I think setting it at the Ministry turned out to be a more interesting choice. I hope you enjoyed it :)**

 **Some of the dialogue on Chapter 1 (Level One), and the last exchange on Chapter 4 (Polls and other uncomfortable things), paraphrases or is a direct quote from The Newsroom.**

 **All the OCs are named for actors and characters in The Newsroom.**

 **A huge thank you to all those who followed or favorited the story, and a particular thank you to all of you who took the trouble to review. Your words make my day! You're awesome :)**


End file.
